Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

If you had asked Party Poison what death felt like, they would’ve probably said something like absolute nothingness. Forever. What they had not counted on — though they probably should have — was that not dying a natural death meant that it fucking hurt.

They’ve still got the Drac’s mask in their hand, can feel it shaking from where they’re gripping it with every bit of muscle strength in their fingers. Their raygun is on the floor, a splash of too-cheerful yellow against the white-ass floor in the white-ass room they’re pressed to the wall of. Korse is in front of them, eyes dark and empty like a shark’s, but Poison’s eyes flicker past him (it doesn’t matter. They know they’re as good as dead) to see that the others have the Girl almost to the door. Good. But then Kobra looks over his shoulder, and sees them, and fuck, no, he’s turning, and he’s lost his sunglasses somewhere in the clap, and his eyes are wide and scared and he looks young — too young — in the slightly grey lighting of the BL/ind fluorescents. He jolts forwards, in Poison’s direction, but there’s no time to try to stop him, Poison doesn’t even open their mouth before the barrel of Korse’s blaster is jammed into the base of their jaw and there’s a teeth-rattling blast of bright, blinding white pain and that is where Poison would have expected that everything would just stop.

But it doesn’t — because Poison opens their eyes and they’re still here, and there’s Kobra, teeth gritted around a scream, blasting through Dracs towards...Poison’s corpse on the floor. Slumped against the wall they were just against. And okay, if this was a different situation, maybe Poison would be a little more intrigued by that, but then Kobra catches a raygun blast — or four — in the chest, and crumples to the floor. No. No. NO.

He’s not dead — not yet, but he will be soon, from the feeble twitch of his fingers and the shaky inhale that barely moves his singed chest. Poison looks desperately for the other two, maybe they can get him, maybe their family can make it out even if they couldn’t, but no, there they are. Cornered by the door with the Girl, surrounded by Dracs, and now that Poison is dead, they’re going to have an Exterminator on them in a few seconds.

If their heart weren’t already stopped, Poison is sure it would have when Ghoul gets that familiar determined look on his face, stony and resigned. He shoves Jet and the Girl ahead of him, through the door, pulls it firmly closed, then turns and raises his blaster. Poison wants to wail. Please, not you too!

Ghoul takes several hits in the shoulder before one lucky laser beam hits his throat. He slumps against the sheet glass, leaving a streak of red behind as he falls, but not before taking six Dracs down with him. Poison’s lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves, but they swallow the feeling and pray, pray to the Witch that they barely believe in that at least Jet Star and the Girl survive.

They’re almost to the car, they’ve almost made it. The Girl’s face is dusty even after days in the BL/ind facility, lines cutting through the grime though she isn’t crying any more at this point, and it’s frozen somewhere between a scream and shellshock. Jet just looks tired and ashen, mouth in a grim line, the Girl’s small hand clasped tightly in theirs. They’re almost there.

But there’s a swarm of Dracs behind them, pouring out of the headquarters and every other white, identical building surrounding it, and it’s clear they’re not going to get out of this.

Jet just maneuvers the Girl behind her and levels her raygun.

The WKIL van careens onto the scene as Jet hits the Trans Am’s hood, dead. The Girl is bundled into the back, Show Pony scooping her into aer arms even as she stands there, shaking and silent, and then the door is slamming closed again and they’re tearing back out into the desert.

The Fabulous Four are dead. But the Girl is alive.

And Party Poison is...something.

*

They’re back out in the desert. Poison doesn’t really know how. They’re actually kind of surprised that they didn’t end up as one of the souls powering Battery City — they figure that’s what they must be: a soul, the imprint of what they were like when they were alive, because nothing else really makes sense — but then again, they’re no electrician, much less a paranatural one. Anyways, it’s probably just a myth passed around by superstitious killjoys. Or maybe they just got lucky. They’re not exactly a goddamn expert on life after death, or the Witch, and whatever she does. Ghoul is going to laugh in my face, Poison thinks, before they realize that as much as they were wrong about the existence of an afterlife, they have no idea where any of the others are.

They’re not completely ignorant as to what’s supposed to happen after you die, and this is not it. They’re pretty sure the Witch is supposed to take you to the beyond, or elysium, or something, if you get dusted. Maybe it’s because they died in the City?

They’re wandering around what they approximate is probably Zone 2. Battery City looms behind them a little too largely for comfort. But what are they gonna do to them now? They kick at a slightly larger-than-average pebble and scowl as their boot passes right through it. Being dead fucking sucks.

If they’re still here, then, really though, where’s the rest of their crew? Poison watched the rest of them get ghosted right there with them in Batt City. They really don’t want to spend the rest of their post-death alone. They want Kobra to sling his bony arm across their shoulders and pull them in tight to his side, for Jet to ruffle their hair and squeeze her hand against their arm, for Ghoul to kiss their forehead and lean their head against his chest with his palm against the back of their head. They’ve never longed more for a gentle, familiar touch.

Something is nagging at them, a memory right at the back of their mind, even though maybe that’s not accurate because Poison’s like fifty percent sure they’re made of memories now or some bullshit like that. They kick thoughtfully at the sand again. It’s about. Masks, maybe? And Cherri Cola.

Oh, god, Cherri. Poison hopes he’s taking care of the Girl now, since their entire crew is dead and they’re in like, a weird state of limbo. Even though they think that probably the Witch should’ve taken them by now. They kind of wish Cherri was here — or not here here, because then Cherri would almost definitely also have to be dead — because Poison wasn’t the religious type but Cherri was, and he would know why Poison was fucking...stuck here and not passing on or- or something.

Cherri Cola with his superstitions, and his prayers to the Witch, and the Mailbox — oh, shit.

Shit, it would be the fucking Mailbox. The other three’s domino masks, their offering ones, the ones every killjoy had some form of just in case, those had been left back at the Diner (because who needed those when Jet and Kobra had their helmets and Ghoul had his Frankenstein mask), but Poison’s iconic yellow mask was their signature, and you don’t need a rebreather in the City of all places. So it had been with them during the drive to Battery City at least, even if they sort of don’t know what happened to it later — Destroya, for being made of memories (? soul matter? This was fucking weird and they really didn’t want to think about it too hard) they truly were fuzzy on the details — and it had probably stayed wherever it had fallen, maybe even destroyed if Korse was feeling ruthless enough.

They’re sure that Cherri would’ve brought their masks to the Mailbox, that he wouldn’t leave them to be — well, that’s what they were now, weren’t they, trapped in an in-between kind of state — and the other three’s masks would’ve been easy, all he would’ve had to do is get them from the box in the pantry tucked away in the Diner’s old kitchen where they’d put them before the suicide-slash-rescue mission to Batt City. But if Poison’s was in the City still...

Poison curses, stomping a circle in the sand uselessly, wishing that they could at least create some cathartically satisfying dust clouds for their efforts. Fucking. Hell.

Of all Poison’s shit luck, this is just about the worst thing that’s happened to them. Not least because it was the last thing that was ever going to happen to them. Being dead is bad enough. But the Girl had survived, and they had come to terms with dying in the space of time between their back hitting the wall of the BL/ind facility and having a laser blast sever their brainstem enough to hope that, on the off chance that Cherri’s beliefs about the Witch were true, they wouldn’t have to spend their afterlife alone. But that’s just how things are for them, aren’t they? Now their family has moved on, presumably, and they’re still half-here, wandering around the Zones like a blind Drac.

There’s a slim chance that someone could, maybe, find their mask. If BL/ind hadn’t destroyed it and if, after that, they decided to toss it instead of keeping it like a trophy to gloat over their victory against the famed Fabulous Killjoys. And then, it would have to end up in the hands of a ‘joy who would actually take it to the ‘box, or Cherri, or Dr. D, and not just squirrel it away because it was the famous Party Poison’s actual fucking mask, what a find. Poison scowls. Popularity was a curse at times, more than they thought really made it worth it.

Regardless, they were stuck, at least for the time being, and they could at least be grateful, they guessed, that they weren’t powering some shitty nightclub sign in the Lobby and had the autonomy to be pissed off that they’d been left behind to haunt the Zones like a particularly fickle ghost.

Well. At least they could try and find some civilization, or whatever passes for that in the desert. If they were going to be stuck waiting to move on they could at least watch some random killjoys and try to derive some entertainment from that. They pick a direction at random — the only qualifier being “away from the City” — and start walking.

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Poison isn’t meant for isolation. This is the first time they’ve been alone in a long, long time, if not ever, and their thoughts keep drifting back to their crew, even though it hurts every time they do: Kobra’s face, split in a rare smile, as he squeezes Poison’s hand before dumping a palm’s worth of sand down the back of their jacket. Ghoul, laughing so hard that a disgusting mix of half-chewed Power Pup and water comes out of his nose, clapping a hand over his face and wincing. Jet, with a smile in her voice, solemnly placing a hand each on Kobra and Ghoul’s shoulders before pushing both of them face-first into a dune.

Ghoul’s lips, chapped, scar tissue a rough drag against the corner of Poison’s mouth, not trying to fix the situation but make it a little more bearable, “they’ll be back, Pois, don’t give up on them yet”. Jet’s shoulder, warm against theirs, as Poison cries into the grimy knees of their jeans because “we aren’t doing anything, Jet, there’s always gonna be more”. Kobra’s eyes, young and frightened and so very much like they had been in those last moments in the City, as Poison grabs his hand and says, “we gotta run, okay?”

Poison wishes that they could cry. In any normal situation they would rather take a self-inflicted laser beam in the foot than let anyone — save on occasion their family — see them break down, but there’s no one around and they wouldn’t be able to see them anyways and maybe it would get rid of the sensation in their throat like they tried to swallow a rock because they sure as hell can feel. But they’re dead, and they’re not really here, and it’s not like they would have the moisture in their system to do so anyways even if they weren’t, because they’ve been trailing around the desert without a canteen for almost twenty-four hours. So they just keep walking.

The Zones seem big and empty when you don’t have a car. Poison isn’t sure what happened to the Trans Am. It’s not like anyone could’ve gone back into the City to get it, and BL/ind hardly has any use for it. Their best guess is that it’s going to be stripped down for parts, or more likely just tossed in a garbage dump to rust. And that makes a hot, sick feeling burn in their stomach (that’s their car. That’s the epicenter of their lives, basically) so they don’t dwell on it much longer than that, even though even more memories threaten to spill to the surface. They keep walking.

*

When Poison cracks their eyes open, the light is blinding, and their head immediately throbs. They quickly close them again, and blearily try to make sense of what’s happening.

They’re lying down, they can tell that much, and their head hurts, and they hear movement around them but it feels far away, like they’re in the center of a dust storm and trying to hear something happening outside of it.

There’s a shuffling near their head, closer than the other sounds, and Poison tries for opening their eyes again, this time a figure swimming into view, blocking some of the brightness. Poison squints, and the room focuses a little bit more, and they can see it’s Ghoul, smeared in dust and sand and sweat. He’s still kind of got his mask on, rubber Frankenstein grimace yanked up off of his face, dark hair tangled in it and sticking to his face with moisture, but he’s looking at Poison with his brows furrowed and blood on his lower lip.

Poison can feel their own brows scrunching with confusion, but Ghoul’s there and deserves something, so they try for some words. “Heyyy, gorgeous,” they manage to slur, feeling the corners of their mouth tilt up despite the fact that they’re not quite sure what’s going on.

Ghoul’s mouth pulls into a tight smile, and Poison tries lifting their hand to reach for Ghoul’s, but it’s too heavy and they only succeed in shifting it a little. Half a second later, though, Ghoul’s hand slips into theirs and squeezes anyways, so that’s alright. “Hey, Pois. Stay still, ‘kay? You got kinda hurt ‘n’ Jet doesn’t want you moving just yet.”

“Jet...?” Poison mumbles, feeling panicky all of a sudden. There was...a clap? It’s a little fuzzy, but Poison’s pretty sure there was, and belatedly they’re hit with the urgent need to make sure that their crew is okay. Ghoul’s here, and talking to them, so that’s one down, but they can’t see the others, so they ignore Ghoul’s previous comment and try to sit up. That proves to be kind of useless, though, given that moving even a little bit immediately makes their head feel like it’s going to explode.

“Ghoul, make sure they don’t move their head,” Jet’s voice says, from around the vicinity of Poison’s waist where they’re lying, and when Poison shakily shifts their gaze in that direction they can make out the blurry form of Jet Star, jacket off but standing and to all appearances just fine. Poison relaxes, only to stiffen when a hand rests on their forehead, gently restraining them from moving.

Ghoul’s already leant down, though, before they can even twitch, mouth right next to their ear as he says softly, “Jus’ me, sunshine. ‘S okay.”

Poison just barely stops themself from nodding, mouthing “okay” instead and hesitating. “Kobra?” they ask, just to be sure. They’re pretty certain that Jet and Ghoul wouldn’t be hovering over them if Kobra was bleeding out on the floor somewhere, but they won’t be able to feel fully calm until they’ve confirmed it.

A hand, glove and red jacket sleeve identifying the owner of said appendage pretty definitively, waves in the air at the edge of Poison’s field of vision. “Here, P.”

Poison sighs, tension draining out of their body, though their head’s still throbbing and they’re becoming steadily more aware of a burning ache in their stomach. “Wha’zz’ap’nin’?”

“You got shot, ‘n’ then a Drac whipped you ‘cross the back ‘f the head with its zap an’ you went down cold, so you’re pretty damn concussed ‘n’ Jet’s tryin’ to fix the hole in your stomach so you don’t bleed your guts out onto the table.” Ghoul is still hovering above Poison’s head, and his voice sounds convincingly calm but his eyes are just a little bit too wide and Poison can feel the slight shake in his hand where it’s still resting against their forehead, pushing the hair out of their face.

They squeeze Ghoul’s hand as best as they can manage. “‘M alright, Ghoulie.” Ghoul squeezes back, tense lines of his face slackening a bit. “...’Re you guys okay, though?”

“Peachy,” Jet says tiredly, dull stinging in Poison’s abdomen telling them that Jet must be cleaning the blaster wound at this point.

“You got the worst of it. They didn’t hit me at all, ‘n’ the most Jet had to patch up for her ‘n’ Ghoul was a couple scrapes.” Kobra’s appeared at their side, opposite Ghoul, little worried smile on his face, but he holds Poison’s free hand when Poison pats it against the Diner table, which they’ve finally come to realize is where they’re all gathered.

Another thought occurs to them, and they dart their eyes between Ghoul and Kobra. “Wh’re’s th’ Girl?”

“Napping,” Kobra says, smile widening minutely when Poison sighs in relief. They don’t like when she has to see any of them really hurt, tries to keep her away from that sort of thing as much as possible. They should’ve figured the others would take care of it, but it’s nice to know for sure that at least she wouldn’t have to see a bleeding blaster wound this time.

Jet blows out a breath, finally rocking back on their heels and swiping at her forehead with the back of her arm. “‘Kay, that wasn’t as bad as it looked. Didn’t even have to stitch you up.” She sighs. “Don’t take that as an excuse to start running around, though, Party, you’re still concussed, fuck’s sake.”

Poison doesn’t really feel much like doing that regardless, given that the bandaged hole in their stomach still feels like shit, and their head whirls even as Ghoul and Kobra carefully move them into a sitting position. “Yes, ma’am,” they quip anyways, giving Jet a slightly sloppy grin.

Jet rolls their eyes, but still comes over to hug them, where they’re propped between their brother and Ghoul. “What, no kiss?” Poison mumbles when Jet pulls away, words sliding into each other. Destroya, they feel like they might throw up.

Jet snorts, still eyeing them carefully. “Nah. Think I’ll let Ghoul handle that one. You gonna hurl?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll get you a bucket. You already vomited all over yourself, in the car no less, so if you’re wondering why you don’t have your jacket that’s why. Ghoul, Kobes, make sure they stay conscious ‘til I get back.”

Well, that just feels unfair, because Poison literally wants nothing more than to close their eyes and go to sleep, but they know Jet’s right, and that’s what you’re supposed to do with a concussion or whatever, so they settle for scowling and halfheartedly muttering something choice that makes Jet roll their eyes again as she’s leaving the room.

They lean against Ghoul and Kobra’s arms, pressed against their back to keep them sitting up straight, and sigh heavily at the way they keep shooting each other little glances. “By the fuckin’ Witch, guys, I’m not just gonna keel over dead the second you look away, ’m fine. Mostly.”

Ghoul frowns, opens his mouth, closes it. He looks at Kobra again, and Kobra nudges Poison’s side where they’re nestled. “You really scared us, Party. One second everyone’s jus’ milkshakes, th’ next, you’re collapsed bleedin’ into the sand. ‘S isn’t exactly an overreaction.”

“Plus you threw up on me in the ‘Am.” Ghoul says wryly. His hand, wrapped around Poison’s waist, is drawing little patterns through their shirt against the skin there, and Poison knows he isn’t mad at them, just a little shaken, though he’s been hiding it exceptionally well for the most part.

They loll their head on Ghoul’s shoulder — carefully, but it hurts with the movement anyways — and give him an overly sweet smile. “Aw, baby, did you hold my hair back for me?” It’s a stupid joke, but it makes Ghoul huff a short laugh, and Poison can feel a genuine smile breaking through their exaggerated one.

“Yeah, Ghoul kept you from choking on this morning’s Power Pup while Jet drove ‘n’ I called Dr. D to warn him ‘bout the patrol that got past us.” Kobra’s tone is joking, but the words he’s saying aren’t, and by the end of the sentence the humor has drained from his voice a little bit.

Poison shifts their head from Ghoul’s shoulder to Kobra’s, squeezing both of their hands at the same time. “Sorry.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Jet says, returning with a plastic bin she’s scrounged from somewhere. “Not like you asked to get slammed over the head. Not many people are real big fans of blunt trauma.” They place the bin they’re holding on the floor in front of Poison. “There. If you’re gonna puke again, use that. ‘N the meantime, you gotta stay awake, so I guess we’ll take turns.” She dusts off her hands, seemingly satisfied with herself.

“Y’ guys don’t have to...” Poison tries, feeling guilty, but their eyes catch on the movement and they stop short, glancing around, trying not to move their head too much. “You’re dirty.”

Kobra rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. Maybe the brain damage ‘s worse than we thought. What, did you want us to leave you lying on the table bleeding while we all took turns showering? We cleaned you up a bit ‘n’ that’s it. Ghoul hasn’t even changed his pants where you literally threw up all over him.”

Poison glances down to see that Ghoul’s jeans are indeed crusted with dried vomit. They wrinkle their nose. “Gross.”

That makes Ghoul actually laugh for real, and Poison can feel the warm vibrations where they’re pressed up against Ghoul’s side. “Fuck you, it’s your goddamn puke.”

Poison fights a grin of their own, lifting their chin a little and taking on a mock-prissy tone. “Well I don’t wanna be around any of you until you’re not disgustin’, so scram. Wash up.”

Ghoul rolls his eyes, sliding his arm out from around Poison and walking towards the back of the Diner. “Fine. I’ll go change, but at least one of us is gonna stay with you, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Poison murmurs, leaning heavily against Kobra’s shoulder without Ghoul’s arm to also prop them up, the leather of Kobra’s jacket gritty under their cheek. “Love you.”

Ghoul shoots them a smile — a much more real one than earlier, all warm and soft — over his shoulder as he leaves. “Love you too. Be right back.” Then he’s gone, and Poison is focusing mostly on just staying awake against their brother, energy drained both from the clap a few hours ago and the pain in their head and stomach.

“I love you guys,” they murmur, quietly, even though their eyes are closed. Kobra’s hand tightens in theirs for a second, and they can tell Jet’s smiling when she replies. “We know, Party. We love you, too.”

*

“The fuck are we goin’, Ghoul?” Poison says, stumbling a little over a loose pebble. The Trans Am is parked at the base of the little rock formation Ghoul is leading them up, hood winking at them in the starlight.

Ghoul just looks at them, brushing back his hair with the hand that’s not holding Poison’s, mouth quirked in a grin. “‘S a surprise, Pois. You know how those work, I assume.”

“Fuck you,” Poison says, good-naturedly, carefully picking their way up the rocks, eyes on their feet so they don’t trip again. Ghoul tugs on their hand, leading them just a little further, and then stops.

“We’re here.”

Poison looks around, a little skeptically. “This is it?” They’re just at the top of the rock pile, barely elevated over the rest of the desert, and sure, maybe the rock they’re on is big and flat but if they wanted big and flat they could’ve just driven out into the desert.

Ghoul gives them an amused look. “Yeah, give it a minute.” He’s brought a rough, worn blanket from the car, and he shakes it out over the center of the boulder, giving Poison a little sarcastic ‘after you’ gesture.

Poison rolls their eyes but takes the extended hand and lets Ghoul pull them down to sit on the blanket. They look over at him, eyebrow raised but smile tugging at their mouth. “What now, Ghoulie?”

“Jus’ wait.”

Poison doesn’t have to wait long.

It starts with one star, streaking through the night sky like a paintbrush over paper. And then another, and another, and soon enough the dark blue sky is full of sparkling silver trails. Poison’s smile stretches into an awed grin, and they squeeze Ghoul’s hand even as they can’t tear their eyes away from the meteor shower overhead.

They aren’t sure how long they sit there, watching the stars fall in a glittering sheet of sparks, but eventually the shower dies down, and the sky looks as it did before. Poison looks over at Ghoul, sitting there with a small, contented smile on his face, stars reflected in his eyes, which are resting on Poison. “Pretty good surprise, baby,” Poison says quietly, voice just a touch rough with emotion.

“I, uh, got you something else, too,” Ghoul says suddenly, in a rush. He fumbles with one of his pockets and then pushes something into Poison’s hands, a small bundle Poison didn’t realize he was carrying. His cheeks have gone a little red, concealed a bit by the darkness around them, and he taps a finger against the ground next to him like he’s nervous.

Poison blinks, then looks down at the little cloth pouch in their palms, tugging at the drawstring and shaking out the contents. It’s a few small pieces of chocolate, and Poison’s breath catches, voice coming out soft. “Ghoulie ...Destroya, where’d you get this?”

“Traded for it. The other day, at that market in Three. Gave ‘em a few of my big bombs, but I think it was worth it.” Poison looks up at him, and he looks a little embarrassed, but pleased, smiling shyly. Ghoul clears his throat. “Um. Kobra told me what day today was, ‘n I knew ‘bout the meteor shower from Cherri an’ wanted to do somethin’ nice for you.”

Poison can’t help the huge, delighted smile that spreads across their face, even as they flush pink, and they know they probably look like an idiot but they don’t care. They look back down at the three little chocolates in their hand, feels warmth fill their chest at the thought that Ghoul would go to the trouble of doing this, of picking out a special spot and driving out here, of getting something this rare, just for them.

“Happy birthday, sunshine,” Ghoul says softly, and Poison turns so they can kiss him hard, tears pricking at the corners of their eyes.

*

“D’ you ever think about it?”

It’s dark in their room, which is really just an old back office with a mattress dragged into it, and Poison is lying on their back, one hand tucked behind their head on the slightly flat pillow, the other resting on Ghoul’s, where his arm is flung over Poison’s hips and stomach. The dim light slipping in through minute gaps in the blinds throws slatted beams of pale blue across the ceiling that fade in and out as clouds pass over the moon outside, and Poison’s been watching them idly.

Ghoul doesn’t respond for a second, and Poison thinks he might just be asleep. Then he says, “Think about what?”

Poison turns their head so they can see Ghoul’s face, one eye visible where he’s cracked it open, the rest of it hidden in the pillow, black locks splayed over the faded white fabric. Poison flips on their side, so they can face Ghoul more comfortably, tucking their legs up. “It. You know. Uh. SCARECROW. Th’ training program.”

Ghoul opens both eyes, twisting to lie on his side too. There’s a little frown on his face, brows slanting softly. “Why d’ you ask?”

Poison exhales quietly, winding their hair around their pinky. “Dunno. Jus’ think about it sometimes.”

“Mm.” Ghoul laces their fingers together, bringing their joined hands up between them on the bed. “I don’t...” he sighs through his nose. “I don’t...remember most of it.”

“ Oh, ” Poison says. That explains...a lot. And it makes their lungs constrict, just to think of the kind of dose Better Living must have had Ghoul on, for him not to remember something that is so permanently branded into Poison’s mind.

“Yeah. It’s uh. A lot of it’s jus’...a blur if I try t’ think about it. ‘N some of it’s cloudy...but I can remember it. And then a little bit of it I can actually remember for real.”

“Like what?” Poison says without thinking, wincing immediately after. “Sorry. Y’ don’t have t’ answer that if you don’t want to.”

Ghoul smiles, with just the right half of his mouth, the way he does when he’s thinking hard about something. Poison knows it’s a habit that carried through from when his mouth got cut up, that for a long time it hurt too much to move that side of his face. He’s since mostly kicked it, smiles with his whole mouth almost all the time, but on occasion the half-smile still makes an appearance.

“‘S okay. I remember...bits and pieces of th’ training, y’know, how t’ handle a blaster, how t’ make a killing shot.” He shudders, just slightly, and Poison reaches out to put their hand on Ghoul’s shoulder. Ghoul turns his head to kiss their knuckles, warm under Poison’s palm. “I remember...what th’ facility looked like, a little, and...I remember you.”

Poison’s eyes flick up, from where they’ve drifted to their entwined hands. “What?”

“I remember you.” Ghoul’s tired smile reaches his eyes now, and he presses their foreheads together. “Not a lot — if ‘m bein’ honest it’s barely more than jus’ flashes, really — but you’re one ‘f th’ only people I really remember from that time in th’ City, even though we didn’t know each other that well ‘t all. Y’know, sunshine — this is gonna sound really cliché, sorry ‘bout that, but I think you might be my soulmate. Or th’ Witch brought us t’gether, or something. ‘S all just a little too coincidental t’ be an accident.”

Poison squeezes their eyes shut, trying to pretend like they aren’t stinging a bit — Witch, Ghoul always somehow manages to make them cry — and presses their hand to the back of Ghoul’s neck. “I don’t think it, baby, I know it,” they whisper wetly, knowing Ghoul’s smile just from the shift in the air between them. “...Didn’t really think you remembered me. Wouldn’t’ve thought less ‘f you for it. Y’ sure do know how t’ make a guy feel special though.”

Ghoul laughs quietly, leans in just slightly so their lips brush. “Can’t really fault me there, sweetheart.”

*

Winded, Poison hits the ground and slides the last few feet through the dust to take cover behind one of the Better Living patrol cars parked haphazardly at the edge of the firefight still blazing around them.

Ghoul, already crouched behind the hood, startles at the crunching of the sand, muzzle of his raygun jerking in Poison’s direction before he relaxes. “Fuck, Pois, don’ sneak up on me, I would’a shot you.” His voice is muffled, filtering through the rubber mask over his face.

Poison just grins wildly. “Nothin’ like a good firefight to get the blood pumpin’, huh, angel?”

Ghoul snorts softly, and Poison can picture his amused smile even without being able to see his face. He’s still peering over the top of the car, firing a couple shots before ducking to avoid return fire from the remaining Dracs. He mutters a curse, pressing his back up against the hubcap and tilting his head in Poison’s direction. “Gotta plan, ‘crew leader’?”

“Sure. Don’t get shot.” Poison can’t help the sarcastic quip, just because they know it will make Ghoul laugh. And he does, a little pitched from the adrenaline rush that being in a clap comes with. Poison’s face warms, and they know it’s doing that dumb thing where it smiles without their permission, that they never, ever mind because it’s always for Ghoul.

The back of Ghoul’s hand, cool somehow even in the sweltering heat around them, presses against the side of their face, right under the edge of their yellow domino mask. They can hear the humor still in Ghoul’s voice, along with something softer and sweeter, when he says, “D’you need t’ get out of the sun, Party? Y’ seem a little overheated.”

He retracts his hand, using it to pull his mask off of his face for just a second. Poison gets a brief glimpse of the sparkle in his eyes before he brushes a kiss against their cheek, dropping his mask back into place. “C’mon, Pois. Let’s go kick some ass.”

“You got it, sugar. Sooner we win this th’ sooner I get to see your pretty face again.” The silly, stupid smile widens when Ghoul rewards them with another laugh, and they burst out from behind their makeshift cover in unison. Ghoul immediately darts towards where Kobra is, taking down a few Dracs with an equal number of well-placed shots as he does so, as Poison backs in Jet’s direction, firing off steady bursts with careful squeezes of the trigger.

“Took you long enough,” Jet pants when Poison’s back-to-back with them again. “What, were you guys making out back there?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Poison fires back, smirking over their shoulder as they aim another shot. They know Jet’s joking, anyways, part of the rapport they have when they fight together. “Tactical planning, Jet.”

“Sure.”

“Incoming!” Ghoul’s voice suddenly yells from across the wobbly half-circle of cars they’re fighting in. Without hesitation, Jet and Poison hit the deck, tucking their arms over their heads. The Dracs aren’t as lucky, a low boom of detonation making the ground rumble. As Poison scrambles to their feet, Jet already up again, they spare a glance back and grin.

“Nice throw, baby,” they yell, see Ghoul flip them off cheerfully from where he’s already back to aiming his blaster. Jet rolls her eyes, though they’re holding back a smile, and just shoves Poison’s arm.

“Look alive, dumbass, fight’s not over yet.”

It very nearly is, though, Ghoul’s well-timed bomb having wiped through most of the remaining Dracs, and from there it’s really just cleanup.

When the last Drac is dispatched, slumping to the ground, Poison blows imaginary smoke away from the barrel of their gun and turns to beam at the rest of their crew. Ghoul rips his mask off, huffing and flicking sweat-matted hair out of his face. “Fuck, it’s so fuckin’ hot, whose bright idea was ‘t to have me wear this thing anyways?”

“Yours,” Jet says drily, Kobra following with a short burst of laughter. He’s flicked up his Good Luck visor, shoving his sunglasses on through the opening.

Poison taps on the top of the helmet as they walk over, still grinning. “You look stupid,” they say.

Kobra flicks their forehead. “So do you.”

Poison sticks their tongue out at him childishly. Ghoul snickers, drawing Poison’s attention back to where he’s standing, his mask wrinkled in one hand. He catches Poison staring and grins, nose scrunching with the movement, raising an eyebrow.

“Good bomb there at the end,” Poison says, tone teasingly casual, taking a few steps closer.

“Yeah?” Ghoul says, amused edge to his voice, looking up as Poison approaches, dark eyes twinkling with the same spark from earlier.

“Yeah,” Poison says, trying not to sound too breathless.

Ghoul leans up right as Poison leans down, lips salty with sweat and just a little gritty with sand and dust. Ghoul tilts his head slightly, and Poison is all too happy to let their mouth fall open and dig their fingers into Ghoul’s hair.

“Guys,” comes Kobra’s pained voice from over their shoulder. Poison wants to ignore him but Ghoul pulls back, laughing a little under his breath. He drops an apologetic kiss against the corner of Poison’s mouth before stepping back, tangling their hands together.

“Y’ can kiss me all you want later,” he whispers, a little teasing but for the most part so sweet it makes Poison’s heart do a funny half-flip and they want to kiss him again now.

Jet clears their throat. “Right. So. Plan? Same as usual, Party, y’think?”

Poison forces themself to focus, casting a quick glance around to assess. “Yeah. Siphon th’ cars, take th’ parts y’ think could be useful, burn th’ rest of it?”

“Got it.” Jet flashes them a quick smile, turns to jog towards the Trans Am to get the stuff they’ll need. Kobra’s already got one of the cars’ doors open, digging through the techy parts of the dashboard for pieces he can use.

Ghoul tugs on their hand, offers them another dazzling smile. “Can’t make ‘em do all ‘f it, Pois.”

“Right behind you, doll.”

*

Poison blinks their eyes irritably against the pale light of morning worming its way through the shades to glare right into their face, ducking their head and curling more firmly against Ghoul’s chest to try to hide from the brightness. Ghoul’s still asleep, arm looped over Poison’s ribs, breathing steadily against where Poison’s nose is pressed into his sternum. Poison closes their eyes, inhales the hint of engine grease and oil that always clings to Ghoul’s hair, along with the hint of citrus that’s come to smell like home.

There’s a helpless little smile working its way onto their face as they ghost their fingers over where they know Ghoul’s tattoos are, the raven with outstretched wings on his neck, the symbols of their crewmates across his chest, Poison’s pill-and-x on the skin over his heart. Ghoul shifts, makes a tired noise, and Poison pulls back to see his face scrunch against the sunlight, eyes still closed.

“G’ morning,” Poison says, voice a little raspy with sleep. They bring the hand tracing Ghoul’s tattoos up to drag through his hair, catching in the little tangles strewn throughout.

“Mmn. Morning.” Ghoul’s mouth pulls up at the corner a little, still not opening his eyes, and the arm against Poison’s side tugs them a little closer. The knuckles of his other hand brush against Poison’s shoulder absentmindedly. “Time is’t?”

“Dunno. Sun’s up but ‘s not hot yet,” Poison says. They keep running their fingers through Ghoul’s hair, working out the snags until it’s smooth, fingertips brushing over the warmth of his neck.

Ghoul’s eyes blink open, half-lidded, still tired-looking. There’s something, though, in the way he’s looking at Poison (always looks at them, Destroya, Poison has got to be the luckiest person in the Zones), something golden and warm that makes a something heady ache deep in Poison’s chest.

They tilt their head up to press their lips together, a gentle hello, good morning, and Ghoul’s hand goes to their jaw to hold them there, lingering against each other, mouths barely moving.

Poison pulls back, eventually, running their fingers along the edge of Ghoul’s face. There’s the soft, happy smile that seems to be reserved exclusively for Poison starting to creep over the edges of his mouth, and Poison presses their lips to the stubble-rough line of Ghoul’s jaw.

I can’t believe I get to have this, they want to say.

“You’re beautiful,” is what comes out.

Ghoul’s face goes an incredibly fetching shade of pink, and his smile gets wider, goes a little crooked. “Thanks,” he says, and laughs, with an embarrassed wobble to it. “But I think you’ve got me beat.” His fingers brush against Poison’s cheek, sweeping a few stray hairs behind their ear.

Poison huffs out a breath and buries their face in Ghoul’s throat instead of responding, smiling to themself when Ghoul presses his cheek against their hair.

“You wanna get up?” He asks.

“Nah,” Poison says, perfectly content where they are. “Let’s give it a few more minutes.”

*

“Don’t do that,” Ghoul murmurs, cradling Poison’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing over their cheeks. He’s warm in Poison’s lap, both of them sitting on their shared mattress, Poison cross-legged with their back against the adjacent wall.

Poison sighs. “It’s true though, Ghoulie. I’m — shit, I’m responsible for the whole fuckin’ desert at this point, I’m the one who decided to play rebel, bring th’ fight back to Batt City, ‘n’ everyone in the Zones ‘s followed my lead ‘cause I made ‘em an’ now four ‘joys are dead.”

“No. Th’ fuck you’re not.” Poison is startled by the venom in Ghoul’s voice, looks up to see Ghoul looking at them with sad, shadowed eyes, though his tone is still harsh when it comes out, in contrast with the way he’s gently sweeping his fingers along the line of Poison’s cheekbones. “You’re not responsible for fuckin’ any ‘f it, got that? Y’ didn’t make anyone do a damn thing, all of us know th’ risks of bein’ a killjoy, ‘n’ th’ only one to blame for that crew’s deaths is th’ exterminator who held a zap t’ their heads.”

His expression softens, from the inside out, and the fire is gone from his words when he speaks again. “You didn’t do anything, sunshine. Y’ can’t blame yourself for every little thing that goes wrong in the desert — or every big thing, either. Y’re not a celebrity, ‘least not ‘n th’ sense where y’ should feel like y’ gotta be a role model, okay? None ‘f us are. You know that.”

Poison takes a breath, lets it out slowly. They hesitate, then say, shakily, “One day it’s gonna be one ‘f you guys. ‘N’ I don’t know what I’ll do.” Their voice cracks on the end of the sentence, and they squeeze their eyes shut.

Ghoul slides his hands into Poison’s hair and grips tight. “We’re not gonna leave you, Pois. D’ you hear me? We all fuckin’ love you, Jet loves you, Kobra loves you, the Girl loves you. I love you. You’d better fuckin’ believe all ‘f us ‘re gonna do whatever it takes, Witch be damned, t’ stay right here with you, alright?”

Poison takes another deep, shaky breath, opens their eyes. “Okay. Okay. Okay.”

Ghoul is watching them, eyes roving over their face, maybe trying to decide whether Poison actually means it. It’s hard to tell, though, and then he leans forward, tucking his face into Poison’s neck. “You’d better fuckin’ believe it,” he mutters, lips ghosting over the skin under their ear. Poison shivers, and their heartrate spikes. Ghoul presses a kiss to the base of their jaw. “I love you —” another kiss, “—‘n’ ‘m right here —“ another one, trailing lower on their neck, “—‘n’ ‘m not gonna leave you. I love you, goddammit, okay?”

If Poison had been in any shape to respond they would’ve argued back, something about not being able to know that for sure, but as it is, with Ghoul’s breath hot on their throat, mouth making their brain short-circuit a little, the most eloquent they can manage is something along the lines of “Nhggh —“

Just a hint of teeth rasps over their collarbone, and Poison fists their hand in the back of Ghoul’s worn shirt. Before he goes any further, though, Ghoul is suddenly right next to their ear, voice low. “Hey. ‘S this okay? Y’ want me t’ stop?”

“No,” Poison mumbles emphatically, breathless.

“Okay.” Teeth, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to leave a mark, against the very edge of their ear. “I love you. ‘M not going anywhere without you, Party.”

And then he’s kissing them, hand slipping under the hem of the old, thin t-shirt Poison’s wearing, and Poison’s hauling him forwards so they’re pressed together.

“I love you, too, Ghoulie,” they whisper, a little raggedly, when Ghoul’s occupied giving them a set of bruises to match the one on their shoulder.

“Good, ‘cause you’re not gettin’ rid of me now, love.” Lips on their pulse point again. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Okay,” Poison says weakly, hands on Ghoul’s waist.

“I promise, Party.”

“Okay.”

*

There’s about a million memories, good, bad, everything in between — and Poison misses him so much their metaphysical chest aches. They’ve lost one of the only good things they’ve ever had in their life — one of four, really, because their family, Kobra, Jet, Ghoul, the Girl, were what they fought for, why they woke up and got out of bed every day. Now that they don’t have them they don’t know what to do.

Ghoul in the ‘Am, nighttime shining in his raven hair like an oil slick, one hand pressed to Poison’s shoulder, pinning them to the seat, the other to the leather next to their head, drawing back just for a second to breathe, eyes dark and red mouth tilted in a grin.

God, they’d been so happy, too — they’d gotten a little over two years, two almost perfect years where they’d been allowed, against all odds, everything they wanted. They could protect their brother and keep Jet at their side and raise the Girl safely and have Ghoul the way they’d wanted him for ages. And, considering how dangerous killjoy life was, that was a lot, Poison had gotten a lot of time. They should’ve known it couldn’t last. Still, they feel, it hadn’t been enough. They’re not sure it would ever have been enough.

“There you are,” Poison laughs, arm around Ghoul’s waist, Ghoul beaming so wide it’s making his eyes scrunch up at the corners. “Here I am,” he says breathlessly, and pushes up on his toes to crush their mouths together.

Poison keeps walking even though it feels pointless, even though their boots don’t kick up any dust as they do.

Ghoul leaning over their shoulder as they roar down Route Guano, Poison yelling along to the song playing on Dr. D’s station and Ghoul laughing brightly in their ear loud enough to be heard even with all the windows open and the ‘Am doing 95, and Poison’s in love.

Destroya, they’re all gone. Their family is all either dead or alive and they’re neither, all of them out of reach.

Cold nose pressed into their cheek. Warm fingers threading through their hair. Soft brown eyes flashing, with heat, with affection, with something so intense it takes their breath away. Gentle lips against the back of their hand.

There’s a little scrap-fabric bag — inexpertly sewn together but no less lovingly crafted for it — somewhere in the Diner, tucked in the pantry where the other three had left their masks, and Poison can’t help but hope that Cherri found it, that he brought it to the Mailbox with the rest of their things, because that was the only way it and the thing it contained were ever going to have a chance of making it to the person they were meant for now.

Jet had helped (being the only desertborn in the crew, nevermind as Poison’s best friend), when Poison had nervously approached her with a question about desert traditions, in finding the right beads, the right colors, stringing them in the right pattern. They’d held on to it for a month and a half, always just a little too much of a coward to actually ask, and then the Girl had been taken and the bracelet had been forgotten, for a little bit, during the frantic next few days of planning what was, in essence, a suicide mission. And now...

Well. Poison had always been shit for timing.

In the distance, ahead, something appears. Poison squints at it, heat rising from the sand making the shape hazy and indistinct, but it seems to be a single building, fairly low to the ground. Feeling their spirits rise, just a bit, at this apparent upswing in luck, Poison quickens their pace a little. It’s not like they can get tired, anyways.

Chapter Text

Kobra slams the door to the apartment. Well, Kobra-but-not-Kobra-yet slams the door to the apartment. Not-Poison scowls at him, instinctively glancing towards the window, where the watery yellow sun is slinking downward into the Battery City skyline.

“Quiet,” they snap. They had snapped everything at that point, so strung out from pill withdrawal and stress and having to act every moment of their life to even try to be nice to their brother. They glare at the greyscale pages of the SCARECROW manual in front of them. Not that they’ve actually been reading it for the past hour. It’s just if they let go of the hardcover binding they’ll start gnawing their nails off. They flip a page, ignoring the fact that their hands are vibrating with tension. “D’you want them to investigate us tonight of all fuckin’ nights? Christ.”

Not-Kobra gives them an unimpressed stare and drops his schoolbag on the dining room table. “You’re welcome.” Not-Poison pointedly doesn’t look at him, but can’t really ignore it when a hard bundle of fabric hits them in the back of the head.

“Ow,” they hiss sharply, whipping around in their armchair. “What the fuck, James—“ they cut themself off when they spot what it was that Not-Kobra threw at them. They pick it up from the floor, unfolding it and holding it up in wonder. It’s a jacket: nice, flexible leather, in a rich royal blue color that Not-Poison has never seen in such a concentrated area before. They clench their still-shaking fingers around the thick fabric, holding it instinctively close to their chest as if someone is going to rip it away from them.

Not-Kobra’s got a small, proud smile on his face when Not-Poison looks up at him, wide-eyed. “It’s for you. Ace Diamond got it for me, wouldn’t tell me where from, but I guess that’s Juvees for you. Got me one too, said if we were gonna leave the City first thing we were gonna need was somethin’ to keep warm, else we’d freeze the first night out. I thought you’d like that one more. Anyways, I called dibs on the red one.”

Not-Poison hesitates, something between “thank you” and “sorry” and “that’s cheating” tangled on their tongue, and in the end they swallow whatever it was they were going to say and slide the jacket on. It smells used — not unclean, just worn and broken-in. Cared for. There’s hints of other scents clinging to it, things Not-Poison has never smelled before, but would later identify as acrylic paints and sand and sun-baked leather. It fits well, maybe just a little big in the torso, but hopefully they’ll grow into it, and Not-Poison is delighted to find that the sleeves are only half length, ending partway over their forearms.

Not-Kobra reads their mind, the way he’s always been able to do, even early on when Not-Poison was bitchy and high strung, and even earlier when Decidedly-Not-Poison had still been on the pills, still in the SCARECROW program. He smiles, patting Not-Poison’s arm right above where the sleeve of their jacket cuts off. “Knew you’d like that. I know how you are about things on your wrists.”

Not-Poison still can’t come up with words, and can’t figure out how to apologize for being so nasty when Not-Kobra came in, so they just grip the edges of the jacket, pulling it tight across their chest, and smile back, hoping Not-Kobra gets it. Fortunately, he does, and grabs one of Not-Poison’s hands, squeezing.

“I’ll go start getting our stuff ready.” He glances out the window Not-Poison had looked out of earlier, the sun almost fully gone now behind the buildings of downtown. “Curfew will be soon, an’ then we’ll leave. Diamond said they’d meet us at the edge of the Lobby. That sound good to you, Ash?”

“Sounds good,” Not-Poison murmurs, rubbing their thumb over the metal teeth of the zipper.

“Okay then.” Not-Kobra flashes them a look, one that’ll disappear behind dark sunglasses only a few days out in the Zones, corner of his mouth ticking up. “Here we go.”

*

“A — Party, check it out!”

They’ve only been in the desert for a few weeks, and it’s obvious; their hair is short and untouched by the dye that so many killjoys covet, and — though it’s not something they would have known was going to change at the time — their jackets are still plain and impersonal, simple blue and red. It makes Party Poison more nervous than the fresh name that’s still settling around them, the fact that the two of them are so clearly new.

“Undergrads,” Show Pony had called them that first night, when two city-born not-quite-yet-killjoys had appeared on the step of WKIL like they’d been instructed to do so by the Juvee who got them out of the City. They’re staying with Dr. Death-Defying and Pony, as they try to get some footing under them, and Poison knows they’re among the lucky ones — most Batt City escapees don’t have a Juvee Hall to get them out and give them advice, and even if they do, they don’t have one as oddly kind as Ace Diamond had been, giving them jackets and water and food and pointing them to Dr. D’s place. They’re getting a very cushy first experience in the Zones, and Poison is well aware they should be counting their blessings.

But they still can’t help but be nervous about...well, everything. They know the desert isn’t kind, and while, when Dr. D had had them run an errand for him while Show Pony was on a delivery — just as a favor — they knew they couldn’t say no to the man who had housed them and their little brother and given them so much help, they’re on edge, a little. Even more so given that their brother — and themself, though they’re more loathe to admit it — keeps slipping and almost using their old names.

So maybe they aren’t as pleasant as they could be when they turn and say, “What?” in a slightly sharper tone than they quite mean to use.

Kobra Kid shrinks back, slightly, and silently points in the direction he’d been looking. (It’ll get better later, when Poison learns how to not be quite who they were in the City, but really when Kobra gets tired of dealing with their shit and starts snapping back. That doesn’t stop Poison from looking back on these moments with a kind of sick regret that they probably won’t ever be able to get rid of.)

When Poison follows the line of Kobra’s arm, though, they get the wind knocked out of them a little.

There’s an abandoned structure of some kind or another a few yards off to the right of their position, too crumbled to really be much use even for shelter, but with still-somewhat-intact walls jutting out of the sand like teeth, providing surface area that someone — a killjoy, certainly, but without much else to identify them — has painted a mural on.

When Poison catches their breath, they make their way over to it, dragging their fingertips over the swirling lines and sharp angles of the artwork. It’s abstract, and that’ll turn out to be something Poison finds they don’t like very much, but in the moment, it’s something they’ve never, ever seen before. Not even in ‘Crow training, where they made sure to really drill into all candidates any sort of illegal acts killjoys and Juvees would potentially commit. It’s so colorful that Poison wants to shove their hands into it, rather than just running them over the surface. See it staining their palms, wrists, arms, bleeding into the skin, becoming a part of them.

Kobra comes up behind them, peering over their shoulder. “What ‘s it?”

“‘S a painting,” Poison says. They’ll learn the term ‘mural’ later, but for now they’re not entirely an idiot at least. They don’t mean to sound so awestruck, really, aiming for more matter-of-fact and completely missing the mark. They can’t stop touching it, as if the vibrancy of it will mark their skin if they keep sweeping their fingers against it, even though the paint is dry. They press their palm into a painted arc of crimson, wishing they could curl their hand around it and pull it into themself. That color is their favorite, they decide. It’s brighter than Kobra’s jacket, even . It feels like fire, and freedom, and the glow of the sun setting in the desert, without an artificial atmosphere to dull its vividity.

Kobra’s looking at them strangely, not like he’s confused, but in a way that Poison’s never seen before. They suppose that they’re going to have to get used to that, given that the intricacies of emotions weren’t exactly top priority in the City. It’s making the back of their neck itch, though, so they spin around, forcing their hands back into their pockets. “C’mon,” they say, forced-casual. “Let’s go, we’ve still got stuff to get.”

Kobra follows them without complaint, but Poison catches him glancing back at the mural several times as they get back to the van and drive away, which they only do because they can’t keep themself from looking back at it either.

They finish the errand, take the supplies from the market back to Dr. D, but Poison can’t stop thinking about the painting, the way the art had looked, and felt under their hands, and the intensity of the colors. It sticks with them enough that they ask Dr. D about it, who professes no great expertise with art but explains as best as he can about graffiti in the Zones, and where to get paints, if Poison wants them.

Poison doesn’t notice Kobra lurking in the back of the room, but they do notice the next day when their little brother is missing. They freak, a bit, yelling at Dr. D when they can’t find him, and then at Pony, and then at nothing when Dr. D won’t let them take the van to go look for him and sends them out behind the radio station to calm down. They throw rocks at the wall for an hour and then spend the rest of the day sitting in the shade with their head between their knees, thinking about all the possible worst-case scenarios. (This, partially, is what gets them to start considering how they’ve been treating their brother. It’s not enough, yet, to really change their behavior, but it does make them start to think about what it would mean if the last words they had said to their brother were “leave me alone”.)

Kobra comes back, though, when the sun is down, sunglasses pushed into his hair, and maybe slightly dusty, but not covered in blood or bruises or any of the things Poison was worried about and Poison is torn between tackling him in a hug and screaming at him until they’re hoarse. They do hug him, though it’s not particularly gentle, and when they let go they smack him on the back of the head. “Where were you?” Poison demands. They’re still taller than Kobra at this point, though it’s only by about an inch or two, and they try to use that to their advantage by straightening up and lifting their chin condescendingly.

Kobra doesn’t cower under their gaze, shoulders held straight and unrepentant, but he does glance at them warily. “Um.”

Poison narrows their eyes, opening their mouth to really get started on a rant, but Kobra cuts them off by abruptly holding something out.

It’s a spray can, and the label has “STRAWBERRY RED” printed on it in brightly colored letters. Poison takes it gingerly, rolling it over in their hands, like maybe their subconscious doesn’t quite believe it’s real. They deflate, and then rekindle, this time with enthusiasm, and when they beam unreservedly at Kobra, Kobra grins right back.

“For me?”

“Yeah,” Kobra says, still smiling. “You really liked th’ painting. An’ I told Dr. D where I was going. So. You can’t yell at me.”

“Hm.” Poison turns back to the spray can, gives it an experimental shake. It makes a clunking-swishing noise and the shift of weight in their hand is satisfying, so they do it again. And beam again.

“Wanna try ‘t out?” Kobra asks, seemingly pretty excited himself.

Poison starts to nod, then catches themself. “‘S dark, we should try ‘t in the morning when we can see.”

“Okay,” Kobra says, and slides his hand into Poison’s as they walk inside, the can growing warm in their other palm as they hold it.

“Hey, um. Thanks.” Poison says, a little awkwardly.

“‘F course,” Kobra says. And Poison can tell he means it.

*

Poison flops easily into Kobra’s personal space, head thumping on Kobra’s thighs as they splay across the booth. Kobra winces, but only slightly, and he reaches out to clasp Poison’s hand at the same time Poison does, long fingers cool against Poison’s palm.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Kobra shrugs, tapping halfheartedly at the dilapidated laptop in front of him. His other hand is pulling at his hair, winding strands around his fingers and tugging them towards his mouth. He’s got work spread out in front of him — his coding books and scribbled sheets of notes and the salvaged ‘Crow computer from the transport raid the previous week organized in neat piles on the table — but he’s not actually using any of it, glancing up every so often and then ducking down and pretending to busy himself with his papers. Poison frowns and prods Kobra’s stomach with their shoulder.

“Hey. Somethin’ up?”

Kobra’s eyes flick up, and then down to Poison’s again. He bites his lip, shaking his head, but he’s fidgeting, bringing his thumb up to his mouth and chewing at the nail absentmindedly. Poison grabs the table and pulls themself into a sitting position to see what Kobra keeps staring at. They look across the room, eyes landing on where Cherri Cola is playing with the Girl on a carefully darned blanket, dangling one of her homemade toys — the unidentifiable stuffed animal Ghoul had made for her the first week they had her — over her head for her to burble at and reach for. The Girl’s tiny infant fingers are wrapped securely around his pinky. He’s smiling warmly down at her, blue-and-brown hair falling across his face.

Poison looks back at Kobra to see he’s gone red, fiddling with the frayed knee of his jeans. “Oh,” Poison says. Then they think about it a little more and say, “ Oh .” They feel a grin break across their face and they can’t help grabbing Kobra’s arm and shaking it a little. “‘S that it? Stupid.”

“It is stupid,” Kobra mutters, eyes fixed on a dirt stain on his thigh. “Wasn’t gonna tell you. ‘Cause ‘s dumb.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Poison says indignantly. Kobra doesn’t look at them though, and that’s a sure sign that something really is bothering him, more than he’s letting on. Poison sits up properly, scooting over to curl into Kobra’s side. “Kobes...” they hesitate. “I meant you were bein’ stupid ‘cause you could jus’ tell ‘im.”

Kobra sighs. “‘M not gonna tell ‘im, Party. Th’ fuck.” He sounds resigned, and that makes Poison’s heart ache a little, partly because their brother shouldn’t sound like that if Poison can help it, and partly because, well, they get it.

They wrap their arm around Kobra’s waist, leaning their head on his shoulder. “I think you should tell ‘im. You’re lucky, y’know. He likes you back.”

Kobra stiffens under them, twitching away. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Yeah he does. Have y’ seen th’ way he acts around you? You come into a room ‘n’ he lights up like a fuckin’ floodlight. An’ he’s always around.” And if Kobra says anything, he’ll be around even more, Poison’s brain reminds them. But whatever. Poison doesn’t mind Cherri, and it would make Kobra happy, so no big deal. Poison gives Kobra a squeeze where he’s pressed up against them, and then another little shake. “Trust me. He likes you.”

“…Okay,” Kobra says, and there’s just a hint of pleased shyness in his voice. When Poison looks up at him, his cheeks are still pink but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay. ‘F you really think so.”

“Yeah. ‘S like...really obvious. Everyone in th’ Diner knows he’s like, obsessed with you.” That makes Poison pause, as they consider their own words. Hesitantly, they nudge Kobra’s arm with theirs. “Didn’t know you liked him too. ‘M sorry I missed ‘t. But...why didn’t y’ tell me? Y’know y’ can tell me anything.”

Kobra nudges them back, leaning against Poison in turn. “Dunno. Jus’....didn’t think that it was gonna go anywhere. ‘N’ I wasn’t gonna tell Cherri ‘bout it so I guess I figured ‘t wasn’t important. An’,” he sounds like he’s smiling, suddenly. “I knew you would make ‘t a big thing. It would become a whole dog an’ pony show ‘n’ I didn’t even think he reciprocated, y’know. Also I guess I thought y’ would think it was dumb.”

“I wouldn’t make it a thing,” Poison says, poking Kobra’s knee.

“Yes you would.” Kobra’s definitely smiling, now, Poison can feel it against their shoulder, and they can’t help smiling back.

“Fine. I would. Happy?”

Kobra blows a raspberry on the side of their neck and Poison squawks and squirms, batting Kobra’s face away. “Fuck you! See ‘f I help you ever again.”

Kobra laughs properly, then, and tucks back into their shoulder, instead of pretending to do his work like he had been. “Thanks, Party.”

“‘Course. I love you ‘n’ y’ needed someone t’ cheer you up. Okay?”

“Mmn. Yeah. Love you too.”

*

Poison storms into Kobra’s room in a flurry of righteous conquest, ripping the blanket off his bed and swinging their own pillow at Kobra’s head with the other. Kobra splutters very suddenly awake, arms flailing, hair disastrously askew.

“What?” he gasps, struggling to sit up as Poison hits him with the pillow again. “Th’ fuck did I do?”

“You knew,” Poison hisses furiously, whacking him violently with the pillow everywhere they can reach, though they can’t really stop from smiling right now, which kind of takes the edge off of their attack. “You knew and you didn’t tell me, I hate you so much and you’re the worst brother ever.”

By this point, Kobra’s recovered enough to grab his pillow out from under his head and launch a counterattack, though at that he pauses to make a big show of looking Poison up and down, taking in their hair (sticking up in all directions) and their face (and, subsequently, the fact that their mouth is bruised), grinning widely, which almost makes Poison miss the opening to bean him with their pillow again. Kobra falls back on his bed with a loud “oof”, but he’s making choked wheezing noises that Poison realizes a second later is him stifling laughter. “Finally figured it out, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Poison squeals, face burning. They smack Kobra with the pillow over the head a few more times, Kobra halfheartedly trying to block the blows, giggling wildly. “He had t’ kiss me first, you fuckhead, I wasn’t gonna figure it out. You’re an asshole.” They give Kobra one last two-armed hit with the pillow before collapsing next to him on the mattress, breathing hard. “You’re his best friend, you could’ve at leas’ told me. ‘Stead’ve lettin’ me pine forever,” they add grumpily, crossing their arms in lukewarm indignation. They aim a cursory kick at Kobra’s ankle.

Kobra rolls towards them, throwing an arm across their shoulders to give them a squeeze. It’s warm and comforting and Poison almost leans into the touch until they remember that they’re pretending to be mad at him and make a huffy noise.

Kobra’s still laughing a little into their shoulder. “He tol’ me not t’ say anythin’. An’ so did you. Couldn’t break Ghoul’s trust, or yours, y’know that. ‘Least neither ‘f you knew.” He still sounds way too self-satisfied, so Poison flails a hand in his direction, successfully catching him in the face — which only has the effect of making Kobra burst into more snickers, undermining the point.

“I know,” Poison says, even more grouchily. Half a second later, though, their face breaks into another uncontrolled grin, and they bury it in Kobra’s mattress.

Kobra pats their shoulder, somehow managing to seem both smug and sincere. “Congratulations,” he says cheerily.

If it’s possible, Poison’s face flushes even darker where they’ve hidden it. “Thanks,” they say, a little shyly. And smile again. Kobra scooches into their side, using his hand to brush Poison’s hair down like he used to do when both of them were living together in the City. Poison wraps their arms around their brother’s waist, pressing their face into the hem of Kobra’s shirt.

“I still hate you,” they say, closing their eyes and tucking a little closer.

“I know,” Kobra says placidly, and continues to pet Poison’s hair.

*

Poison stirs, the room around them still midnight-dark, not completely sure what woke them. That is, until a finger jabs them in the ribs. They just bite back a yelp, squirming away. Ghoul makes a displeased sound when Poison’s elbow catches him in the side, rolling over on the bed next to them and throwing a slack arm over their waist.

Poison opens their eyes to see Kobra’s face right over their own, eyes wide and shadowy, ever-present sunglasses shoved in his hair, so close that Poison can just about make out every freckle on their brother’s nose, and this time Poison can’t quite stop a squeak of surprise from escaping. Kobra just smiles at them. “Got somethin’ t’ show ya,” he whispers.

Poison nods to show they understand, and Kobra smiles again and tiptoes to the door. After carefully extracting themself from under Ghoul’s arm, murmuring “sorry, sorry,” when it makes Ghoul shift and make another blurry noise like he might be waking up, they tuck the blankets back into place, padding across the dusty tile floor to where Kobra is hovering in the doorframe.

 
They shut the door gently, and turn to see Kobra bouncing on the balls of his feet. “What ‘s it?”

“C’mere,” Kobra says, grabbing their hand and yanking them through the Diner’s main room to the front entrance. He pulls Poison all the way to the corner of the outside wall, then stops and holds his hands out in a “ta da” motion. “Look!”

There’s a snake on the bleached red surface, long and dusty, patterned with dark brown patches all along its body. A small pink tongue darts out of its triangular head, and it writhes, scooting a few more inches up the wall. Poison blanches and tugs Kobra back by the collar of his jacket. “‘Sn’t that a rattlesnake?”

“No, look, see, ‘t doesn’t have a rattle. ‘S a nightsnake!” Kobra points at the snake’s skinny body, and Poison notes that it is indeed rattle-free. They relax a bit, taking a cautious step closer to look at it.

“‘S pretty cool.” They tilt their head. “This what you woke me up for?”

Kobra deflates a little. “Yeah?”

Poison bumps their brother’s shoulder with their own. “No, ‘s r’lly neat. Don’ worry ‘bout it.” Kobra smiles, and Poison smiles back. They knock their shoulders together again. “Hey, tell me ‘bout this kinda snake. What’s it do?”

Kobra’s face lights up, and he starts pointing out features of the snake, explaining that it’s harmless to humans, that it eats lizards and frogs and mice, that it has these big blotches behind its head, see, and that’s how you can tell it’s safe, and it’s a female ‘cause the males are smaller than this, Party, isn’t that cool? And Poison just leans into his shoulder and lets him talk as much as he wants, humming in affirmation occasionally, sometimes asking him another question that spurs another tangent of information. The snake seems content to be gawked at, docilely clinging to the wall as Kobra gestures at it.

When the sky is just starting to lighten, Poison gets an idea, and nudges his side with their elbow lightly. “Hey, we should get Ghoul’s Polaroid. We can take a picture ‘f it so you can keep it.”

Kobra grins at the suggestion, so Poison hurries inside to their and Ghoul’s room, giving Ghoul’s shoulder a gentle shake where he’s rolled into the warm hollow on Poison’s side of the mattress. “Ghoulie — baby, can we use your camera?” they ask in a stage whisper. They take Ghoul’s sleepy hum in response as affirmation and carefully retrieve the camera from its place wrapped in a scrap of fabric in the corner of the room, leaving Ghoul with a thank-you kiss on the cheek.

They proudly present it to Kobra, who proceeds to excitedly take a bunch of photos from different angles of the snake, which tolerates the continued attention with only a single wiggle that takes it further up the side of the Diner.

By the time the sun is actually peeking over the horizon, and the snake slithers off into a hole in the ground near the cracked pavement at the base of the wall — at which Poison makes a mental note to give the Girl a talk about being careful around wild animals — they have a stack of polaroids and two tired smiles between them, and Poison doesn’t even mind that they missed four hours of sleep that they’ll have to now make up with a nap.

Kobra will tape the photographs around his bed with scribbled sharpie captions and a more-fully-awake Ghoul will pretend to complain about the use of his photo paper and Jet will ask Kobra a million questions about the snake that Kobra will happily answer and when the Girl begs to see where the snake went Kobra will take her outside to look at the burrow it crawled into. It’s not a particularly unique memory, but Poison will still come back to it from time to time, and Kobra’s pictures of the snake will still be up on the Diner walls the night the Fab Four go into the City.

*

Poison bounces into Kobra’s room, jumping onto the mattress and shaking Kobra until he groans and rolls over.

“Mnhgh.”

“Up!” Poison insists, slapping wherever they can reach. Kobra yanks his pillow over his head.

“Why? An’ why are you up b’fore me, th’ fuck?”

“‘Cause ‘s your birthday an’ we all have a surprise for you!” Poison beams when Kobra sits up, giving them an incredulous look.

“I thought we weren’t doin’ birthdays?”

“That was ‘fore we knew when everyone’s was. ‘N’ th’ Girl always gets one, so I figured we could start havin’ parties an’ stuff. C’mon,” they tug at Kobra’s shirt sleeve. “Ghoulie was gonna make pancakes but I tol’ him that neither of you was workin’ today ‘cause birthday ‘joy gets th’ day off, so Jet’s makin’ ‘em.” Poison’s grin gets wider at the cautious delight blooming on their brother’s face.

Kobra follows them out into the main room of the Diner, where Ghoul immediately abandons the magazine he’s reading at the counter to hurl himself at Kobra and try to wrestle him to the ground. “Happy birthday!”

“You too,” Kobra says, throwing an arm around Ghoul’s neck and patting at his shoulder with the other once he’s succeeded in using Ghoul’s momentum to be the one to pin him to the ground, Ghoul’s enthusiasm seeming to infect him a little. He’s starting to grin. He looks over at the kitchen, not trying to wiggle out of Ghoul’s octopus grip-slash-hug quite yet. “Morning, Jet.”

Jet cheerfully waves a spatula at him, flour smeared over their cheek. “Happy birthday. C’mere, this ‘s part of th’ surprise.” Kobra disentangles himself from Ghoul and walks over, looking curious and sniffing at the air, which already smells heavenly, in Poison’s opinion: sugary and bready and sweet at the same time. His mouth falls into an “o” shape when he sees, eyes going wide, and he looks quickly over at Poison, and then back at Jet, like he’s sure it has to be a joke.

“Are you guys serious?”

“Yes!” Poison throws their arms in the air, grinning like a lunatic. “We got blueberries for th’ pancakes!” They can’t restrain themself any further, really, because they’ve been planning this day for literal months and all of the surprise stuff was for their brother, things that they know Kobra will like and they’ve been waiting for ages to get to see his reaction. “An’ we’re havin’ a party! A small one,” they amend, because they of all people know that Kobra and big crowds don’t mesh. “Jus’ th’ crew. But we gotta cake, that Newsie’s gonna bring by later, an’ I radioed Cherri ‘n’ he’s gonna pick you up this afternoon an’ take you out for your birthday! Surprise!”

Kobra’s face breaks into a huge, beaming smile, the kind that’s on the rare side for him and Poison’s favorite thing to see, just like they knew it would, and he hugs Poison tight, smiling into their shoulder. “Thanks,” he says, and his voice is hitching. Poison squeezes him as hard as they can manage, smiling just as hard back, face pressed against his bony chest.

Kobra gives them a quizzical look when he pulls back, glancing around the room at Ghoul and Jet’s matching smiles. “That all sounds like stuff for me, though. ‘S Ghoul’s birthday, too.”

Poison’s smile doesn’t drop, Ghoul gently putting a hand on their waist and resting his cheek against their upper arm. “Th’ party’s for both ‘f you, an’ th’ cake, y’know. Ghoul ‘n’ I are doin’ somethin’ tonight. Jet’s got plans with Pony. So ‘s all good!”

Kobra’s face relaxes back into happy excitement, and Poison can’t help but feel a little bit proud of themself.

Later, when they’ve gotten their pancake breakfast and they’re sitting on the floor (not at the table, at Poison’s insistence that eating on the floor makes it more of a party) having the cake that Newsagogo brought — storebought, like one might find in a Batt City grocery, and Poison isn’t sure if they want to know where she got it — Kobra flops down beside them, holding a heavily iced slice of chewy white baked dessert on a piece of cardboard acting as a plate. Cherri’s on his way, having called a few minutes prior and assuring that he would be over in about a half-hour. Kobra smiles at them, hair falling in his face, smearing icing on his mouth when he takes a bite and hums happily. He looks young. Really young, and Poison reaches over to brush the strands behind his ear.

“So. Nineteen.” Poison doesn’t mean to speak, but it spills out, softly. Kobra looks over at them and Poison flushes, shoving a chunk of cake and icing into their mouth.

Kobra’s face softens. “Yeah. We’ve been out here a long time, huh?”

Poison snorts, leaning on Kobra’s shoulder. “‘S a good thing, though. Jus’ kinda can’t believe you’re all grown up now. Like, for real. ‘S weird.”

“Yeah.” Kobra makes a face. “Don’t feel nineteen.” Poison laughs, something they didn’t know was there lifting from their chest.

“Know what you mean. I don’ feel twenty. Feel sometimes like ‘m still fifteen tryin’ t’ keep us from freezin’ or goin’ hungry.”

“Lot ‘s changed since then.” Kobra says through another mouthful of cake.

“It has.” Poison looks over at where Ghoul is holding the Girl in his lap, talking softly with Jet while rubbing soothing circles against her back as she naps. Their heart squeezes, tight with affection. “‘S all good stuff, though.”

Kobra’s expression shifts, vulnerable and open, and he sets his cake down, scooting closer to give Poison a hug. “Thank you,” he says, quietly enough that the others won’t hear. “Not jus’ for th’ party.”

Poison blinks against the sudden wetness in their eyes, surprised at the thick feeling welling in their throat. “‘F course. Fuck, ‘f course, Kobes.” They bury their face in Kobra’s shoulder, feeling Kobra rock them back and forth gently.

“I love you. Thanks for bein’ my sibling.”

“I love you too.” Poison squeezes him a little harder. “Happy birthday.”

Kobra’s answering smile lights up the room for long after he’s left for the evening.

*

Poison can’t remember a time without Kobra. They were too little to remember when their brother was born, and for their entire life Kobra has just been there. Poison’s heard stories about amputees having phantom pains where a limb they no longer have used to be. They figure that must feel a lot like this, this gaping hole where something vital has been violently ripped away.

A lot of their childhood memories feel strange — like they’ve been tainted by something that shouldn’t be there — and fuzzy with age. Vague recollections of bland, unflavored ice cream in the summer and walking to school hand in hand from their family apartment in sector two.

Kobra in the park near their apartment building — very small, probably only four or five — kicking a pile of browned, crunchy autumn leaves that somehow haven’t yet been swept out of sight by the City, gasping in wonder as they explode into a confetti that swirls through the air around him like snow, and Poison, six years old but already old enough to know that the Draculoids wouldn’t like it if they saw, glancing around to check for witnesses before joining their brother.

If everything else feels like being gutted, not having Kobra with them feels like forgetting how to breathe. Poison tries to shove the feeling to the back of their mind, but it’s so wrong and unfamiliar that everything else feels off-axis by proxy.

Kobra, the night they saw their first sunset in the Zones, crushing Poison’s hand in a grip so tight it’s making the bones of their palm shift, and when Poison looks over at him he’s caught in an expression halfway between exhilaration and trepidation, orange and pink streaking over the highest points of his face like fresh paint.

Even before they met Jet Star, before they met Fun Ghoul, Poison and Kobra had always been together. Even being as insubstantial as they are, Poison’s body keeps reacting instinctively, turning to and reaching out for someone that just isn’t there.

“You did it, holy fucking shit!” Poison’s screaming right in Kobra’s ear, but Kobra doesn’t seem to mind because he flings his arms around Poison in return, covered in dirt and gravel, the edge of his Good Luck helmet digging into Poison’s back through their jacket. Poison doesn’t care, though, ‘cause Kobra’s grinning like a maniac and he just won his first Crash Track race and he’s clinging to Poison like no one else in the crowd really matters — and they don’t, because this is their brother.

Poison shakes themself, refocusing on their goal: the first building they’ve seen in over a day and a half. As Poison approaches and the sun sharpens behind it, their heart jumps into their throat. It’s WKIL.

They burst into a full-on sprint, and Poison’s not sure if space and time warp or if they just lose track of everything because they’re terrified and excited and Destroya, they’re going to get to see their Girl again. They’ll get to see Dr. D and Pony and Cherri and they’ll have the Girl and she’ll be safe. Poison knows their crew’s sacrifice was worth it — anything would be worth it, if it kept even one member of their little family alive, and even if Poison won’t be able to touch her, they’ll be able to see her, and that’s suddenly the most important thing. Making sure she’s okay, seeing it with their own eyes.

The soul physics question gets answered when they reach the porch and phase right through the door. Of course, fuck, they can’t interact with literally anything, that’s just peachy. It’s not important, though. Not right now.

Show Pony’s in the front room, curled into a ball on the radio station couch, entirely motionless where they would normally be a whirlwind of color and energy. Poison’s heart does a funny thing where it tries to rise and sink at the same time, and they can’t help but feel a little ill at the thought that they — Poison and their crew — could’ve done this. Of course, though. it’s only been a few days. And all four of them are dead.

“Sorry,” they say out loud, voice soft, though naturally Pony doesn’t even twitch — because Poison is dead and can’t interact with the living world anymore even though they have to be stuck in it. They place an incorporeal hand on Pony’s head, wincing when it passes right through and withdrawing it quickly. “Sorry,” they say again, even though they know Pony can’t hear them. “We had to.” Their voice cracks, and they swallow the feeling like broken shards of glass in their throat. “Y’know we had to.”

They reluctantly leave Pony on the sofa and wander through the rest of the station. Dr. Death-Defying is in his broadcast room, not saying anything, though the ON AIR sign is blinking. There’s not even any music playing, the record player silent and dusty in the corner. It makes Poison’s heart ache even more sharply to see the Doctor so still and quiet. They take a deep breath and turn away. There’s not anything they can do for their living friends now. Their crew knew what they were signing up for. They knew perfectly well they almost certainly weren’t coming back alive.

There’s no sign of Cherri in the station. That makes sense, in a way. Though Poison tries to block the thought out, their brain points out that Cherri’s probably at the Diner. Mourning. Mourning for them, all four of them. Poison grits their teeth and breathes as steadily as they can and wishes for the millionth time that they could just cry so the heavy ball of grief sitting behind their sternum would stop hurting as awfully as it does.

It’s not until Poison’s been through the entire building that the realization hits them. Panic, hot and cold and feeling like an electric shock, grips them so hard they have to sway on the spot and pant for useless breath for a second before they’re running back through the station. They look everywhere they can think of, tearing through every inch of space in WKIL, making two full circuits of the radio station before they’re forced to face the truth.

The Girl isn’t there.

Chapter Text

Poison tries to think — where would she have gone? Where would a child — and here there’s a sour taste in their mouth — who just lost her entire family run to, if she felt trapped?

They don’t know. But the Diner is as good of a place to start as any, so, reluctantly, Poison leaves behind the quiet, shuttered radio station and heads back out into the sands. WKIL isn’t so far from the Diner, but the lack of a vehicle and the pressing solitude make it feel like eons of walking through undisturbed grit and dust, with a sun boring down on their shoulders that they can no longer feel, before they crest a dune and there, in the distance, is home. Poison never thought they would miss the pinking burn of the sun’s rays, but dying will do that to you, they suppose. Laid out practically at their feet is the cracked, dusty asphalt of Route Guano, crows gathered around a picked-over scrap of roadkill that scatter when Poison breezes through their midst.

The Diner, when they reach it, is stripped less bare than they might’ve expected. Apparently most zonerunners have chosen to leave their belongings be, and Poison doesn’t know whether to be grateful that their family’s memories are mostly untouched or saddened that none of the contents of the Diner will have a new life again, like most things in the desert. The transience of ownership is a time-honored tradition; gone and ghosted killjoys living on in the new blood that adopts their old living spaces, their cars up-kept and driving on, stored rations giving new ‘joys what they need to forge a new life in the Zones. And aside from a few missing gallons of water — which Poison couldn’t possibly begrudge, it’s not like they have any use for it now — that won’t happen to the Diner, it seems.

In the middle of the Diner’s main room, Poison has to stop and breathe for a second. They still can’t cry, their lungs are useless, but the ritual of it allows them to steel themself; to make their way through what could easily be a freeze-frame, an easy snapshot where everyone has only just gotten up and left for a moment. Poison feels like the other three could come in through the door at any time, the deadened bell swinging silently on its hook. Ghoul’s tools and spare parts are piled in the corner, tucked behind the booth. Poison draws their hand over the wooden back of the seat, pretending like they can feel the slight stickiness, the nicks in the polish. They remember lying on the table, uncomfortable with one leg tucked up, the other hooked around Ghoul’s hip and still dangling off the edge, and not caring, Ghoul almost nose-to-nose with them and both of them laughing softly over nothing, his hand warm in their hair. Kobra’s helmet is on the shelf, still. Dust has settled lightly on its surface, the bold declaration of “Good Luck” having done nothing to prevent the death of its owner. Poison can practically hear boots thumping on the almost-submerged front step, remembers the nights when Kobra would come back streaked in dirt and sweat and sometimes blood, but always beaming like Poison almost never got to see otherwise and carrying a ream of carbons and sometimes even fresh foodstuffs.

When they go wandering through the Diner’s back rooms, even more things jump out at them: the Girl’s drawings, plastered all over the dingy wallpaper and some even drawn directly on it, in crayons or markers or paint; whatever they could find for her. Poison kneels to look closer at a drawing she’d done when she was four, scribbled green cacti and tan sands with a big blob of purple and pink and black in the middle. “What’s that?” Poison had asked. “Th’ Witch,” the Girl had replied confidently. “She knows m’ mom an’ dad. An’ takes m’ pic-churs t’ them for me.” The memory only tightens the cloying pressure in their chest, so Poison straightens up and keeps going. 

They don’t want to look in their and Ghoul’s room; only glance in long enough to see that the Girl isn’t in there. Even that quick glimpse of rumpled bedsheets from leaving in too much of a hurry to straighten and glossy photographs on the walls is enough to make the ache of loneliness go sharp again. Kobra’s room is similarly devoid of life, undisturbed stuffed animals sitting in a neat, lonely pile on his bed, clippings of desert reptiles and motorbike schematics and pictures from magazines that Kobra found interesting scattered all over the walls and in crates in the corner. When the Girl’s room is empty, too, Poison crosses their fingers and pushes through the last door in the hallway.

Jet’s room is empty. No Girl. Poison sits on the floor, having nowhere else to that they won’t just fade through, and tries to stay calm. It’s fine. Just one place off the list. There’s a million places in the Zones the Girl could be, this isn’t their last hope.

There are a million places in the Zones the Girl could be.

Poison puts their head in their hands. They wish their crew were here. They wish Jet were here, either to offer comfort or tell them to snap out of it, because Jet would know what to do. Jet was whip-smart, smarter than the starstruck groupies who idolized their gang tended to give her credit for, knew how to stay cool under pressure, and always, always had Poison’s back. Poison lies down on the slightly dusty rug, the one Jet found at a swap market and dragged home, patterned with planets and stars and swirly shapes Poison thinks are supposed to be galaxies. Fuck . What would Jet say if they were here?

*

They’ve been at WKIL for about three or four months now, and it’s fairly early in the morning when the rumble of approaching engines jerks Poison out of a restless sleep. For a moment, they’re tempted to go right back to it, but curiosity gets the better of them and they swing their legs over the side of the cot Dr. D’s been letting them use, yanking their boots on and fumbling with the laces to get them into a serviceable knot.

They’re expecting another one of Dr. D’s suppliers, when they step out onto the rickety front porch and squint out into the bright yellow sunlight lining every cloud of sand and mist with gold. The convoy that’s approaching is way bigger than anything they’ve seen so far, though, and their curiosity grows. Kobra’s already out there, leaning against the clapboard siding of the shack, sipping coffee from a worn kelly green mug. Poison looks over at him, still startled by how tall he is now, after his growth spurt last month. “That’ll stunt your growth, y’know,” they say, without any hostility.

“Fuck off,” Kobra says, which would be easier to take seriously if his voice didn’t crack halfway through. His mouth twitches into a half-smile. “‘S good. An’ ‘m already pretty tall. Taller than you .”

Poison sticks their tongue out at him, and he squeaks a laugh. “Who’s that?” Poison asks, tilting their head in the direction of the approaching dustcloud.

“Dunno,” Kobra answers, slurping the dregs from his cup. “D said ‘t was some friends ‘f his, some big motorbaby caravan ‘r somethin’.”

When the convoy pulls up, settling in an organized sort of chaos in front of the station, there’s about six cars total, plus a couple bikes. It’s hard for Poison to get an exact count with all of the dust kicked up, not to mention the fact that there are, indeed, a large number of kids and teens that tumble out of the vehicles and are apparently set loose for the most part to entertain themselves, shrieking and running and falling into impromptu games. They think they spot a few adults interspersed in the crowd, but the jumble of colors and motion is still a little much for them to handle, so Poison pulls their eyes away and back to Kobra, who, they note with relief, is looking a little overwhelmed himself. His fingers are tight around his mug, and he flashes Poison a grateful look when they reach over to gently tug one of his hands away and give it a squeeze.

The doors of the frontmost car, a screaming, lurid violet thing, slam shut then, cutting through the rest of the noise. “D!” calls the driver, undercut brown-black locks falling in their eyes, an icy blue streak cutting their fringe in half. 

D rolls out to meet them, and while blue-streak and a tall, kind-looking ‘joy with locs held out of their face by a claw clip and a jacket so shiny it might as well have been made out of sheet metal are talking with him, hands clasped in his in a way that indicate a long-standing friendship, someone else exits the car and Poison’s attention is drawn again.

The kid — ‘cause it is a kid, probably about their age, which is why Poison was interested in the first place — sees them staring and waves. Startled, Poison waves back, and Kobra, ever dramatic, just lifts his coffee cup in return. With a glance towards the ‘joys now engrossed deeply in conversation with Dr. D, the kid makes their way over, smiling in a disarmingly friendly way the entire time.

“Hi,” they say, as soon as they’re close enough. Their voice is a little lower than Poison expected, and with a certain timbre to it that they’re starting to recognize as meaning desertborn. They brush their thick curls out of their face with one hand, the other sticking forward, going in for a handshake. “Jet Star. She/they.”

Poison shakes her hand hesitantly. “Party Poison. Um. Uh. I don’t— I like ‘they’.”

Jet Star laughs, and it makes their face round out, bright and joyful. Still, Poison bristles a little, until Jet says, “Y’ two ‘re undergrads, yeah? ‘S cool that you’re out here, ‘s always kinda impressive when city kids leave th’ Batt, what with all the effort they put ‘nto making sure y’ don’t.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Poison says, quietly surprised, and dammit, they’re being uncharacteristically meek and they know Kobra can tell because he’s getting all squinty in the face around his sunglasses.

Jet turns their attention to Kobra, then, offering her hand again. Kobra shakes it a lot more confidently. “Kobra Kid. He/him. Party’s my sibling.”

“‘S nice t’ meet you. Y’ guys stayin’ with Dr. D?”

“Yeah,” Poison nods vaguely, not really sure what to do with their hands. They end up shoving them in their jacket pockets. “Been here a few months.” They wave loosely at the collection of cars and various vehicles behind them. “This your crew?”

Jet smiles. “Yeah, kinda. ‘S my mom an’ dad’s.” She points at the couple talking to Dr. D. “My dad ‘s been friends with D since they were kids. ‘S him, with th’ blue streak. He an’ my Ma run th’ caravan, lot ‘f it is my blood family, but th’ rest is kids from Gertie’s — Gravel Gertie’s, ‘s th’ orphanage a few Zones over — really any kids who wanna stick around, pretty much. My parents love kids.”

“‘S cool,” Poison says, and then pauses awkwardly.

The silence only lasts for a moment, though, because then Jet says, “Wanna see my violin?”

“Oh,” Poison says, and then when Kobra gives them another weird look, “Sure!”

They aren’t exactly sure how to handle just how nice Jet is being, but they still follow, jumping from the porch and down into the packed dust, when she smiles at them again and beckons. 

“C’mon,” Jet says, kicking up sand when she turns on one foot. “Ma lets me keep th’ case in the trunk, but I dunno ‘f I’ll be able t’ play it or anythin’ ‘cause ‘f all th’ bumps we hit on th’ way here; probably ‘ll need t’ retune it. Hey, d’ you two wanna give me your frequency? We can hang out ‘f my parents wanna come by again. Maybe y’ can come see th’ Flats with us sometime, ‘s really neat if you’ve never been, an’ I’ve never had cityborn friends t’ bring before.”

Friends.

Poison smiles fully, knowing their grin is a little crooked but feeling like Jet won’t care the way BLI always did, and it seems they’re right because they just get an easy return smile in response. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be really nice.”

*

She catches their eye at a huge swap meet-slash-popup-market in Zone 2. Poison grabs Jet’s arm, yanking on their denim jacket. “Look,” they hiss, pointing, and Jet does. She raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah. ‘S a nice car. What about it?”

“She’s perfect, Jet. Look ‘t her. She’s perfect. We need her.” They’ve got both hands wrapped in Jet’s jacket sleeve in excitement, now, bouncing on the balls of their feet.

Jet’s expression goes a little bemused, though she smiles, mouth ticking up at one side. “We do?”

“Yeah, ‘f course we do! I mean y’ see what I see, right? She’s a real stunner, an’ y’know, every crew needs a car. —Or, well, um.”

Jet’s face lights up, brown eyes brightening, and the horrible choking feeling that had immediately gripped Poison’s lungs when they realized what they’d just said dissipates. “Crew? Y’ mean it?”

“Yeah! Like, ‘f y’ want me an’ Kobra around all th’ time. An’…an’ if y’ don’t mind leaving th’ caravan.” The relief and excitement flooding over them isn’t quite enough to stem the pang of guilt that threatens to break through, especially when Jet looks at the car again and their expression goes wistful. Poison resists the urge to gnaw at their already-bitten nails and instead tangles their hands together in front of their stomach.

“Ma an’ Dad ‘ve been talkin’. They’ve been telling me it’d be good for me to go off on my own an’ find my own crew since I was thirteen an’ that was three years ago. Ever since you guys ‘ve stuck around they’ve been pushin’ for us t’ be a crew. So, ‘f you’re serious…”

“Serious. I — “ Poison looks down at the ground. They can feel their cheeks going pink, in a way that’s clear is not from the blazing sun beating down on the market. “You’re pretty much th’ only person my age I know out here, but. Well, y’know, you’re the first real friend I’ve ever had. You’re real nice t’ me an’ Kobes. You’re real cool an’ know everythin’ about th’ desert that we don’t. An’ I think we’d be a good crew.”

Jet bumps their arm, and smiles when they look up. “The best crew.”

Poison smiles shyly up at her, and Jet waves down the ‘joy that owns the beautiful white vintage number that stole their heart from across the market. She’s a ‘79 Pontiac Trans Am, in as good a condition as can be expected out in the Zones, and, somehow, Jet works sheer magic and wheedles the price down to just under ten thousand carbons. It’s still a number that makes Poison sway on their feet when they hear it, but Jet digs through her wallet and comes up with just under a quarter of the money, sealing the deal with a promise of an owed favor, a crate of Pup, and to come back with half of the money later.

Jet takes the silver key the ‘joy hands her, dangling from a bare keyring, then turns and drops it into Poison’s hand. “Here. She’s your baby.”

Poison clutches the key tight, so tight the ridges are digging into the grooves of their palm, looks up at her wide-eyed— “I don’t know how to drive.”

Jet bursts out laughing. “Okay. S’ fine, I can teach you, but, uh. Maybe I should drive back t’ the Station.”

“Y’ mean it?”

“‘F course.” Jet swings easily into the driver’s seat of the car and starts fiddling around with the seat. Poison follows much more hesitantly, running a reverent hand over the mismatched brown and red leather interior detailing. Evidently at some point some parts had needed to be replaced and the original red hadn’t been available. “An’ don’ worry,” she adds, teasing still in her tone. “I’ll let you tell Kobra the news.”

Poison laughs themself, then. “‘Bout the car or the crew?”

Jet smiles slyly, eyes twinkling, and reaches out to punch their shoulder gently. “Both.”

*

It’s late, very late — it must be almost four in the morning at this point, and Poison and Jet are sitting with their thighs pressed together on the roof of a dilapidated old diner they’d been lucky enough to find just as it had been vacated by the crew that used to live there. It’s theirs now — their crew’s, the still-yet-unnamed group of the Venom Siblings, as the ‘joys at the market and Crash Track have taken to calling them, and Jet Star. Pony had offered, smiling innocently, the “Terrible Three”, and as stupid as it is, it’s the only suggestion they’ve had so far. Kobra hadn’t been any help, and Jet wasn’t taking it very seriously, offering pre-war band names with a barely-suppressed grin of mirth every time Poison asked her thoughts on the matter. As funny as she seems to think ‘Joan Jett-Star and the Blackhearts’ is, Poison wishes she’d treat the decision with a little more levity.

That’s what Poison is thinking about, eyes gazing up at the hazy, dusty stars scattered across the sky but not really seeing them. Jet nudges their faux-leather-clad leg with the knee she has pressed against theirs. “‘S on your mind, P?”

Slightly embarrassed, Poison purses their lips, humming noncommittally. “Uh…it’s stupid? Jus’ like…our crew name. Y’ gotta have one, right?”

Jet shrugs, mouth in a half-smile. “I mean, yeah. Kinda. Doesn’t gotta be that deep, though. Plenty ‘f crews ‘ve got basic nicknames they go by, things they come into over time. Y’ don’ have t’ come up with one yourself, an’ ‘s not make or break for bein’ a killjoy.” Her eyes are knowing when she looks over, tilting her head towards them.

Party laughs, though it’s self-conscious, and clenches their hands together in their lap. “Am I that obvious?”

“I dunno. Maybe.” Jet tucks a stray curl behind their ear, star-shaped earrings glinting as they catch the thin light of the moon. She shrugs again, smiling at them with just one corner of her mouth, which is still glossy with the evening’s lip tint. “Maybe only to me.”

Party’s breath catches, heart suddenly starting to pound anxiously. That sounds…well. It sounds…

They don’t know what to do with their hands, which have gone still in front of them. They’re frozen with anxiety, hesitating for far too long to be casual, and somewhere in the scrambled panicked mess that their brain has become they curse their awkwardness. They can’t tell if Jet is leaning in, at first, but then it seems like she might be, in the starlight, and oh god, they need to do something…and…and…

Jet stills them with a gentle hand on their shoulder. “Party, hey. Not…not that I’m not flattered, but…” 

She looks uncomfortable, shifting restlessly on the edge of the roof. Party is really and truly puzzled by the entire situation and the signals they think they’re getting but aren’t really sure about, before they finally manage to piece what she meant together and burst out, “Oh, thank the Witch.” It isn’t until the words are already out of their mouth that they realize how that sounded and, flustered, hastily add, “I didn’t mean for that t’ sound so bad, promise! You’re like— you’re my best friend. You’re really really great, and I love you a lot, just…not…not like that. I couldn’t tell if— I thought maybe— I jus’ didn’t want t’ disappoint. Sorry.”

Jet just snorts, though, silver piercings glittering in the moonlight as they throw their head back in a laugh, curls arcing through the air like a wave. “No, Pois’, y’ don’ gotta explain. ‘S cool. …Same, y’know? You’re my best friend, too. You’re fun an’ sweet an’ I love spending time with you. But ‘m not like…in t’ you. Romantically. Shiny?”

“Shiny,” Party parrots, earnestly, and just to show Jet that they’re Good, Really, they scoot a little closer to rest their head on Jet’s shoulder. Jet throws an arm around their shoulders in response, giving them a squeeze and knocking their feet together companionably.

“I love you,” Party repeats. “A lot.”

“I love you, too,” Jet says, and presses a kiss to their hair.

*

“You’re doing it wrong,” Jet wheezes through gritted teeth, and Poison kind of wants to punch her in the nose.

“Goddammit, Jet, stop moving around so much an’ maybe I’d be doing a better job,” they snap testily, and try to thread the needle through the thin flesh of her inner thigh again. Just then, the ‘Am hits a bump in the cracked desert highway, everything and everyone in the car jerks wildly to the left, and Jet yelps like they were just shot again.

“Keep it steady!”

“I’m trying!” Poison yells at a volume that is too loud for the enclosed space they’re in, and Kobra, who is currently driving the car at about three times the speed he’s typically comfortable operating any vehicle that isn’t a motorbike, just grits out “Shut up, Jet,” and keeps white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“Party, th’ alcohol wipes—“

“Shut up, Jet,” Poison repeats after their brother, breath and heartbeat pounding in their ears, and pulls the needle quickly through the wound again, which at least has stopped gushing blood at an alarming rate all over the seats. Their stitches are incredibly uneven and ugly, but it’ll hold, hopefully, until they get to the field hospital that just popped up in Zone 3. They tie off the thread, hastily press the terrycloth rag they were putting pressure on her leg with back over where blood is beading up again, and lean down with their ears still ringing with adrenaline. “They didn’t teach us how to stitch a wound in ‘Crow training, okay?” they hiss in Jet’s ear, an edge to every word. “In fact , they barely taught us first aid at all , because everyone’s expendable and that includes us, so excuse me if I’m doing it wrong. I am doing my fucking best here, Jet. Now shut up and sit still until we get to the hospital, got it?” They don’t give Jet a chance to respond, just pressing down on the rag hard enough that she hisses a sharp breath through her teeth and pinching their lips together in a thin line.

Poison doesn’t cool off until they’ve paced around the med tent several times, sweating out their fear and frustration and anger with every lap. It feels like endless loops of kicking sand in front of them and wanting to hit something, but by the time the nurse pushes the flap open and beckons both Poison and Kobra in, they’re bone-tired but far less embroiled in emotion than they were earlier. They collapse into a rickety wooden dining room chair that’s been placed next to Jet’s cot, and say all in one breath, “Fuck’s sake, Jet. Scared the shit out of me.”

Jet, sitting up in the bed and looking for all the world like she wasn’t bleeding out just twenty minutes earlier, says, “We’ve gotta teach y’ guys basic first aid.”

Poison ignores that and adds, faintly, “‘M going to strangle you ‘f you do that t’ me again.” They lean back in the chair, staring up at the stained canvas roof overhead. Their head is pounding. For all that they’re a little less angry now, they’re dehydrated and still shaking a little bit from the surge of cortisol that had flooded their veins as soon as Jet had screamed.

“‘S desert survival 101. Every ‘joy’s gotta know a bit ‘f first aid.”

“I mean it, Jet,” Poison snaps, hotly, sitting back up, embers of fury flaring back into flame.

There’s a moment of tense silence. Kobra looks between the two of them, squeezes Poison’s shoulder briefly and says, “I’m going to give y’ guys a moment.”

When he’s breezed back out through the flap of the tent, Poison takes a deep, steadying breath and punches Jet hard in the shoulder. “You asshole .”

They take another deep breath, feeling tears prickling at the corners of their eyes, and say again, “You asshole.”

It’s not just the tiny wound that’s been picked in their ego that’s making them this angry, they know that much. It was the feeling of being helpless in the face of their best friend bleeding out in front of them, and the fact that Jet had been very right — they didn’t have the faintest idea what they were doing.

“Party, hey,” Jet says, and opens her arms up to them.

They hug her tightly, fumbling over their words in their haste to blurt, “Sorry, sorry. Sorry I got so mad. You were right. Sorry.”

“No, hey. I’m sorry too, alright? Didn’t really consider your feelings, that y’ were scared. I’m okay. Y’ did your best, an’ it was enough, an’ ‘m okay. Okay?”

“I’ve gotta learn first aid,” Poison mumbles into her chest. “You were right.” The panicky feeling is surging back over them. For a second, they’re back in the car again, sticky dark red blood all over their hands, Jet’s complexion growing more ashy with every passing minute. They swallow, feeling like there’s a rock in their throat, and Jet gives them a little shake.

“‘S okay. I’ll teach ya,” Jet assures them, and tugs gently on a strand of their hair, greasy and hanging in their face. “Promise I’ll be nicer t’ ya than th’ folks at BLI were.”

That, at last, teases a laugh out of Poison, and they squeeze their arms around her even tighter. “Lookin’ forward t’ it,” they breathe, and Jet finds their hand and laces them tight together.

“Ain’t nobody takin’ us away from each other,” she jokes, nudging them with her elbow. “Not even th’ Witch.”

Poison laughs, freer this time, and squeezes Jet’s palm with every bit of strength they can muster. Her shoulder is warm beneath their chin, dusty with sand and freckled from the sun and alive, alive, alive. When the next breath they take comes out trembling, they don’t try to stop the tears from falling.

*

It was Jet who pitched the idea in the first place. Pretty much every pair of jeans of hers was decorated in some way by now, most a combination of the Girl’s efforts — armed with a sharpie marker and a toddler’s talent for drawing — and Jet’s own boredom and whims: glitter, pen doodles, beadwork, rhinestones. Whatever was lying around. But this pair, she said, they wanted Party to paint. She’d looked at them and asked if they would make some design for her, and what were they going to say, no? ‘Only if you help,’ Party had insisted, so here they were.

Party dips their brush into the yellow paint again, and goes back to trailing jagged bolts of lightning down the right pant leg. Jet’s on the other side of the booth, patiently filling in the storm clouds Party had sketched out with a deep blue-grey. It’s a sunny afternoon, the Diner’s cover providing just enough shade that it’s comfortably warm, not sweltering, and dust motes drift lazily in the light pouring in through the big bay window in the front room. Rinsing their brush in the chipped mug at their elbow and going for white this time to blend the colors out, Party glances up to see Jet looking back at them.

“What?” They ask. “I got paint on my face ‘r something?”

Jet smiles, then, the way only she can — the kind of smile that warms you from the inside out, that feels like being wrapped up in a blanket and hugged tight. “Nah,” they say, shaking their head so the stray curls they hadn’t gotten pulled back in their bun bounce. “Jus’ appreciating th’ view. Spending time together jus’ you and me means a lot.”

“Oh,” Party says, not knowing exactly how to respond to that. It doesn’t matter as much with Jet, though — they get Poison better than anyone else does, they think sometimes. “‘S special to me, too,” they say, and dab a few strategic dots of white paint next to the painted bolt of electricity.

Jet puts her paintbrush down, suddenly, and says, “D’ ya think we’ll always be friends?”

Party sits up, startled, and puts their own brush aside. “‘F course, Star. You’re my best friend. ‘Course we’ll be friends forever.”

Jet laughs, picks up her brush again, sets it back down, shakes her head impatiently. “Don’ know what’s up with me today. Sorry.”

“Hey,” Party says, and shifts around to sit on Jet’s side of the booth so they can squeeze them in a hug. “‘S okay. Whatever ‘t is, ‘m here for ya.”

“Don’ know what ‘t is,” Jet says again, but hugs them back, strong, lean arms tight around their ribs. She leans back, looks at them searchingly, and then sighs. “Witch ‘s got her eye on me today, I guess.”

Party frowns, but keeps their arm around Jet. “Why’d ya ask?”

Jet shakes her head again. “Told ya, I dunno. Got a weird feelin’ all ‘f a sudden.”

“Well I promise ya,” Party says, looking up so their eyes can meet, steady and earnest, blue to brown. “I promise ya I’ll always be your friend. Don’t even matter ‘f you’ll always be mine, I’ll be your friend ‘s long ‘s we’re both around to be friends.”

Jet makes a sound that almost sounds like a laugh, but is too choked to be right. Her strong hands, nails painted a shimmery blue, a smear of grey paint on her knuckles, fumble for Party’s and squeeze tight. “Don’ be silly. ‘F you’re my friend, ‘m yours. Forever an’ ever.”

The sun outside has dimmed a little, clouds passing over it and leaving the Diner interior shrouded in shadow. Jet shivers next to them, a little, and repeats, “Forever. Promise.”

*

The Diner is quiet, this afternoon — Ghoul’s out with Kobra at Gravel Gertie’s, and they took the Girl so she could play with the children there, so it’s just Jet and Party left at home.

Party’s holed up in their and Ghoul’s room, painting supplies spread out all over the floor, sketching on a dusty canvas with a piece of artisan charcoal from the market. Scowling at the line they just made, they swipe at it with their hand, brushing it into nonexistence and smearing black dust across the meat of their palm. They jump when a sudden noise screeches through the warm-sunshine-silence of the air. There’s a beat of quiet, and then the noise rings out again, at a slightly different pitch — and then again, and again, and finally Party recognizes it.

When they peek their head out into the main restaurant section of the Diner, Jet’s got her back to them, their violin case open on the single remaining Diner table, the instrument itself propped on Jet’s shoulder as they tune it. It’s inconsistent little bursts of sound, vibrating around the enclosed space as she carefully adjusts each peg, going strictly off of her own ear to tell her when it’s in key.

Finally, her deft fingers take their places on the neck of the violin, her shoulders straighten as she readies the bow with a little flourish Party thinks isn’t a conscious motion, and starts to play.

Party’s never seen anyone else in the desert with a violin, so really they have no frame of reference for what it should be like, but they think that Jet is a truly excellent player. She’s musical, and elegant, and she moves with the melody she draws from the strings, eyes closed — Party knows that without seeing her face. The music today is classical, Party can tell that much. They never were fully versed in the old, dusty, dead composers Jet likes; the City doesn’t exactly put an emphasis on the arts of any kind, especially not when the pupil in question is training for their SCARECROW division. There’s a difference in the sound of the piece, though, that even Party can hear. The last time Jet had played was a month ago or so, and that had been an AKA Loretta cover. Classical compositions, as Jet calls them, are different. Party’s no musician, they can’t quite put their finger on it.

As the particular piece she’s playing through seems to wind to an end, Party steps fully into the room, letting the Employees Only door swing shut behind them as they do. “What was that one?” they say.

Jet turns around sharply, eyebrow raised, but doesn’t flinch or jump — it’s her nature, she’s steady like that. “Thought you were painting,” she says without answering the question.

“Heard ya start playing,” Party shrugs. They wipe their palm on the side of their jeans, grinding charcoal dust into the washed-out fibers.

Jet nods, and rolls the bow between her fingers. “Tchaikovsky,” she says, then. “Sleeping Beauty.” Their brown eyes catch the light as they look up to meet Party’s own, deeper and darker than Ghoul’s shade. “‘S what that last bit was.”

“It was pretty.” Party flops down into the booth seating, resting their head against the cracked red leather of the seat back. In their peripheral vision, strands of bright red mingle with the more sedate sheen of well-worn leather. Jet turns to keep facing them as they do, still idly twirling the bow in her hand. Their eyes linger on each other; Party never feels like they have to look away with their crew. They’re the only people they can maintain eye contact for without a reason, only because they know whatever their family sees in them is something to be loved, not judged.

Jet looks back down at her violin, lifting it back to her shoulder and playing a strain of loose notes, strung together in an idle melody. There are curls falling in their face, out of their sloppy-casual updo, but she doesn’t brush them away. It’s the kind of effortless beauty that Party thinks only someone like Jet can pull off. The ringlets cast sharp shadows on her cheekbone, in the direct light pouring in through the Diner’s big bay window.

“If I had a kid,” Party starts, not knowing where the words came from but letting them tumble off their tongue without stopping them anyways. “I’d want them to be like you.”

Jet abruptly lets her arms fall to her sides, music forgotten, and quickly looks back over at them. Their expression shifts quickly from one emotion to another, none of them identifiable, before settling on a soft smile, chin downturned, eyes squeezed shut. She shakes her head. Clearing their throat, they lift their violin again, running their fingers over the strings. “I’d teach ‘em to play,” she says, simply, and holds the bow over the strings, hovering but not touching. She hesitates, then drops her bow arm again. “Party. You okay?”

“Shiny, Star,” Party says, on a sigh. The exhalation ruffles the hair rumpled up against the booth, disturbing the dust motes eternally floating in the stuffy Diner air. “Just wanted ya t’ know. I love you more than anything.”

That teases a less serious smile out of Jet, their mouth quirking up at the corner and eyes brightening a little. She readies her stance to play again, shifting her feet to settle into a more comfortable position. “An’ I love you. Even ‘f you’re th’ biggest chatterbox in the Zones sometimes.”

Party laughs, and Jet grins, and then her fingers dance over the throat of the violin as she jumps into another tune, Diner filling with music once more.

*

Poison doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking for at this point. Doesn’t even remember leaving the Diner. It had been so tempting to just give up, stay there with all the memories of their family surrounding them and just wait and wait and wait until they faded into oblivion. But certainly at some point they had rallied themself because now they’re wandering again.

Jet had been their rock. A steady, ever-present lighthouse that Poison had always been able to orbit around, even when things were at their darkest.

“Need a light?” Jet teases, flicking open her lighter to give the graffiti Party’s laying down on the wall just a bit more illumination, and Party just kisses her cheek as thanks, finishing up the line they were doing, so their little illustration is complete: two birds, circling each other, linked together by a delicate chain between their feet, and JS + PP; BEST FRIENDS , inked in the loop between their outstretched wings.

It’s bright. Poison should feel hot, under the eternal glare of the sun, but they just feel cold. Everything feels cold.

Jet, pushing them onto the dance floor at Hyperthrust, screaming “Come on!” in their ear. They’ve never danced before, but Jet breaks into the worst, most ridiculous series of shimmies, holding their hand and swooping her arms in an exaggerated wave motion and suddenly, they don’t feel like anyone’s watching them anymore.

Jet was a warm hand between their shoulders, a troublemaking grin when Ghoul and Kobra were up to something particularly stupid, a hug when the world was falling apart in Party’s hands and they barely knew up from down, their emotions flying high and dipping low all within the span of a few days and they felt so out-of-control it seemed like the end was all they could see. A lighter in the black to help them find the way again.

Jet’s face, bright and inviting, when Party says they’re going to propose to Ghoul but they need her help, and she laughs until she cries at their nervousness before taking both their hands in hers, kissing their cheeks, their nose, and their forehead one-by-one, and saying, “First thing we’ll need is your colors.”

ZONE 6 , a sterile BLI-branded signpost reads coming up on their left. Their boots still don’t make any imprints in the sand. If they were out this far typically they’d need a rebreather. Their rebreather is back at the Diner. They keep walking. They pass a skeleton lying propped against a brittle saguaro, rags the only thing clinging to its form now. Someone had stripped whatever they could — there’s no trace of boots, or a jacket, or a mask. Poison hopes that means their mask had made it to the mailbox; the fewer ghosts like them haunting the Zones, the better. The wind carries sand and grit and radiation, blowing straight through them. Poison shivers. They keep walking. The sun beats down, relentless, slinking through the sky towards the coast, somewhere behind them. They keep walking.They keep walking. They keep walking.

Chapter Text

“No. No way.” Poison shrinks away from the tiny bundle in Ghoul’s arms, that he’s carefully cradling to his chest and which is shifting ever-so-slightly as the thing inside of the blankets wriggles. “We can barely take care of ourselves, what were you even thinking bringing that thing here?”

“She was all alone,” Ghoul says sharply. He shifts the bundle to hold it up against his shoulder, one hand coming up to cup the back of the infant he’s holding in his arms. “Her mom was dead. I saw her picked apart in the sand. Who knows how long she’d been there by herself — she’s tiny, she wasn’t going to last much longer ‘f I left her. What d’ you think I am, a monster?” He spits that last part with a pointed look away from Poison, and they can hear the edge in his voice. He knows in a way they used to think that. It stings, and that makes Poison’s shoulders draw up again, ready for a fight.

Jet cuts in, putting a steady hand on Poison’s back, right between their shoulderblades, where it’s almost like they have an off switch. Jet knows exactly how to handle the pair of them at this point, when tempers are high. “Y’ did a good thing, Ghoul. Wouldn’t be right t’ leave a sandpup t’ fend for themself, ‘m glad she was lucky enough that y’ found her. We don’ have t’ keep her, though. Gravel Gertie’s isn’t too far from us, we could take her there. Would be better than having her stay here.”

Better is right, Poison thinks, slightly frantic. The baby Ghoul is holding is miniscule, can’t hold her head up on her own, even. They were never cut out to be even an older sibling, much less a caretaker — besides, where would they even get all the shit a baby needs? Their mind is running a mile a minute even trying to fathom it — it’s just too much, they’re all just teenagers. Better to have her go to someone who actually knows what they’re doing, than to let their crew majorly mess up a kid who’s brand new.

Ghoul doesn’t seem to think so, though, because his head snaps up and he bristles immediately. “No! She can’t go to an orphanage where they’ll — she — No. She can’t go to Gravel Gertie’s. She’s so little and she needs a family now. She needs people to care for her, to love her, and she’s not gonna get that at an orphanage.”

To Poison’s shock, Kobra pipes up from where he’s tucked all his gangly limbs into a ball in the corner of the couch. “I’m with Ghoul. She ain’t gonna get the kinda stuff little kids need at Gertie’s.”

“What?” Poison whirls on their brother, but he doesn’t even blink.

“I agree with Ghoul,” he says evenly.

Ghoul still looks up for a fight, but relief briefly flickers across his face at Kobra’s outward show of support. The bundle in his arms wriggles weakly again, and he immediately switches back into attentive caregiver mode, bouncing her and cooing at the little girl wrapped in the linen folds. “‘S okay, lil’ jackrabbit. Lemme get y’ something t’ eat, okay? I bet you’re hungry and thirsty, having been all alone. You were a brave girl, weren’t you?” The baby lets out a thin little whine, and he shushes her gently, reaching a finger out for her to grab at.

Poison stares at him, stricken, arms dangling limply at their sides. It’s very clear that Ghoul would have no problems taking care of the baby. They vaguely remember that he had a little sister, in the City when they knew him, and that they have no idea what happened to her. Guilt surges up again, cloying bile trying to crawl up the back of their throat, and this time it’s not just at their own complete failure to be a good older sibling to their own little brother growing up, when faced with the evidence that it could be done, if they’d just tried harder, but at the understanding that Ghoul had been missing something this whole time and they hadn’t known or cared. They think about what it would feel like to lose Kobra, and feel icy fear making the hair rise on the back of their neck and their stomach roll nauseously. Their eyes are still fixed on where Ghoul is smoothing a tattooed hand over the baby’s fuzzy head of tight curls, and any further argument they had dies on their tongue.

In fact, it seems like nobody is going to argue any further, and the conflict just sort of peters out into nothing. Ghoul heads off to the kitchen to prepare a bottle of the formula he’d found stacked in the warehouse the baby had been hidden in, and Kobra turns back to the issue of MURDER he’d been perusing before the sudden incursion of Ghoul-plus-a-baby on the otherwise unremarkable afternoon. Poison finds themself staring after Ghoul, eyes fixed on where the tiny bundle, holding tight to Ghoul’s finger, had disappeared through the doorway.

Jet blows out a gusty breath. “Okay. Guess I’ll go fix up a place for her t’ stay. Lemme radio my Ma, she an’ Dad might have some supplies they can give us.”

Poison nods vaguely, and Jet claps a hand to their shoulder again, before heading off to the back hallway where the crew’s makeshift rooms are, “Employees Only” door swinging lazily back and forth on its hinges behind her.

Poison shuts their eyes tightly for a moment. They don’t believe in any gods, haven’t found any desert deities that they’ve connected with either, so they can’t even reach out to a higher power to plead for help. No, they’re very alone with their trepidation right now, and it makes them feel unsteady on their feet. There’s a baby in the Diner, and she’s here to stay at least for a while. They guess they’re going to have to get used to it. Fuck.

*

It’s past midnight at this point, as Poison comes creeping back inside. Their ears are ringing slightly, still, and they’re feeling wobbly from the adrenaline drop, which might be why it takes them so long to notice that Ghoul is sitting up with the baby, tucked in the Diner’s lone booth, watching them warily. He’s got a bottle in his hand and the little girl cradled in his other arm, so he must have been feeding her right before they came in. Just seeing him makes Poison’s stomach swoop high and then low again, a reminder of why they felt they had to get away from the Diner that evening in the first place.

“Hi,” they say softly, placing their favorite pair of chunky-heeled combat boots by the door and crossing the dirty checkerboard linoleum in just their sore, socked feet. “She asleep?”

Ghoul doesn’t seem to know how to react to them these days, and that’s fair, given their seemingly sudden 180 from sneering derision to trying to be friends, but even as his eyebrow creeps up his forehead, he shakes his head slightly. “Nah, she woke up ‘cause she was hungry, but now she won’t go back t’ sleep.” Sure enough, as he shifts the bundle of onesie and blanket in his arms, the baby blinks her big brown eyes up at them, tiny broad nose crinkling as she makes a snuffling noise.

Tentatively, Poison reaches out a hand to her. She reaches up immediately, little fist clamping around the tip of their index finger. It makes them smile against their will. “You’re really good with her,” they say, still quiet, even though they’re not afraid of waking her anymore.

Ghoul shrugs a shoulder halfheartedly. “She’s a good kid.” When Poison glances back up at him, they realize just how tired he looks: there are bruise-colored bags under his eyes, and his usually-warm tan is soured by an unhealthy pallor to his skin. He blinks, slowly, dark eyes unfocusing like he just can’t summon the energy to keep them trained on anything in particular. There’s a slight slump to his shoulders, and Poison notes the way his fingertips are white where they’re pressed into the bottle in his hand, like he’s worried he’ll drop it if he holds it any looser.

“Let me take her,” Poison blurts. Ghoul’s head twitches up, surprised.

“You sure?” he says, adjusting the baby up higher in his arms. “I thought you didn’t like her.”

Poison feels the tips of their ears going an embarrassed pink. “It’s not…I like her. I’m just.” They worry their lower lip between their teeth before admitting, just above a whisper, “I jus’ don’ think ‘m cut out t’ be a parent. Tha’s all.”

Ghoul’s eyes go softer, and even as Poison swallows down the way that makes their heart try to escape into their throat, he smiles a little, just the unscarred corner of his mouth quirking up. “Think y’ underestimate yourself,” he says, simply, and then stands, carefully transferring the baby to their arms. “Here.”

Poison freezes, but their body remembers how to hold a baby, even if it’s been fourteen years since the last time they did. For a moment, they just stare at her, and the baby stares back, eyes wide and slightly startled.

“Say hi t’ her,” Ghoul encourages them. His head is tilted slightly to the side, small smile still on his lips.

Poison clears their throat a little, nervous. “Hi Girlie,” they say, voice quiet and rough. The baby blinks. “Hi Girlie,” they try again, stronger, trying for something a little gentler and bubblier.

They’re rewarded with her face breaking into a huge, gummy smile, her little hands waving until they catch the collar of their t-shirt and grab. It makes them take a big breath, partially relief, partially joy. “Yeah, hi, hi,” they say, smiling themself, unable to help it, and the baby squeals, tugging on their shirt with her tiny fingers.

Ghoul huffs a tired, pleased laugh. “She likes when people say hi and give her attention. She likes dancin’, too, if y’ hold her and bounce around while singin’.”

Poison can feel themself softening against their will. They know it’s dangerous to forge attachments to anyone out here, children especially — they’re so small, and fragile, and they’re an asset BLI wants enough to kill for. But the six-month-old in their arms is incredibly endearing, with her round eyes and tight curls and big toothless smile.

Ghoul yawns widely, jaw popping. “You sure you’re good to take her?” he asks, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with one hand and bracing the other on the table like he needs the extra support.

“Yes,” Poison says, softly, still looking at the baby cradled against their chest. They adjust the blanket tucked around her with one hand, bouncing her slightly. “Y’ should go t’ bed, I’ll get her down again ‘fore I go to sleep, promise.”

“‘Kay,” Ghoul murmurs, and lays a gentle hand on the top of the little girl’s head, briefly, before ambling off to the crew’s rooms past the “Employees Only” door. Back to their shared mattress in the Diner’s back office. The thought makes their heart do a sick little flutter.

They wait until he’s gone, then look back down at the baby, who peers back with her brown eyes wide and guileless. “I need ya t’ keep a secret for me Girlie,” they whisper. “Think ‘m pastel. Y’ won’t tell anyone, right? I trust ya.”

The baby bares her tiny pink tongue and toothless gums as she cracks a yawn that’s far too big for a creature so small. It gets Poison to smile again, mouth pulling up at the corners of their own volition. “There we go,” they say, voice raspy from screaming their lungs out at the MGMK concert a couple hours ago, but as gentle and quiet as they can make it. “Y’ go t’ sleep, an’ I’ll make sure you’re all settled ‘fore I turn in, okay?”

The snuffle the infant makes is answer enough for them, with the way she curls against their chest, little fingers still hooked in the collar of their shirt. Settling in with their back against the Diner wall and legs up on the booth seating, Poison pats her back rhythmically and watches her breaths even out until their lids feel heavy themself.

*

The glass pane rattles in the door as they slam it open, dumping their canvas tote bag of items from the market next to them on the floor. “WHERE’S MY PRINCESS?” Poison hollers, grin spreading across their face as they hear the distinct sound of uneven, toddling footsteps booking it around the corner from the kitchen.

They drop to their knees, arms spread wide, as the Girl comes careening around the Diner’s counter, wobbling back and forth as she takes the biggest steps she can manage, flashing her tiny, pearly teeth in a big, delighted smile. “Pah-tee! Pah-tee!” she squeals, little hands outstretched, and they scoop her up into their arms as soon as she’s close enough, peppering kisses all over her round cheeks.

“How is my princess today? You had a good day? Jetty get you some lunch?”

The Girl beams, gap-toothed smile lighting up the room as her fingers fist in the fabric of their top. She clings tighter as Poison gets back to their feet, hefting her up onto their hip, her little legs hooking around their waist. It’s like what Poison imagines having a spider monkey in their arms would be like, tiny limbs hanging on tight.

“Aaaalright,” Poison says, reaching down to grab their bag of supplies from the market and bouncing the Girl up higher on their hip. As they walk around the corner into the kitchen, she lays her head on their shoulder, a warm, steady little weight. Poison hefts their tote onto the industrial stainless steel counter wrapping around the mostly-empty kitchen, using their free hand to start stacking cans of Power Pup in the cabinet next to them.

There’s a tiny tug on their Radiation Leak Barbie concert tee, and Poison looks down to see the Girl point at the fridge in the corner. “You want a snack?” Poison asks, and they take her big smile and the babbled noises of excitement she makes in response as a yes. “Did y’ eat all the strawberries already with lunch? ‘F there’s any left y’ can have those,” they offer. The fresh fruit had been an incredibly lucky pull: some gravehead crew with a death wish and a hell of a lot of swing with the Witch had somehow managed to take down a BLI supplier carrying a load of fresh goods — fruits, veggies, cuts of meat — from one of their corporate farms further north, despite the fact that those kinds of loads were under more security and escort than any other, and though the resale prices at Tommy’s had been insane, their crew had all been in agreement that the baby needed nutritious foods. The strawberries had been just one of the things they’d brought home to the Diner with them just a couple days ago, but they were the Girl’s favorite, and the stash in the full punnet they’d brought back had quickly dwindled.

“Twah-bey-ee,” the Girl parrots, delighted, pointing more insistently at the dusty industrial fridge.

“I got you, jackrabbit,” Poison promises, using both hands to shift her weight up higher again. It’s getting harder and harder to hold her for long periods of time, the bigger she gets, but they want to maximize the time they get with her in their arms — before she gets too big or too old and doesn’t want to anymore. They cherish being able to hold their baby girl. They don’t want to let it go just yet.

Lucky for them, the Girl is in a phase where she wants to be held more often than not, and Poison gives in more often than anyone else, so she’s started coming to them first when she wants “up”.

Pressing another kiss to her forehead, Poison carefully crouches in front of the fridge to get the handful of remaining strawberries still sitting in a bowl from the bottom shelf. The Girl shrieks in excitement when she sees them, clapping her hands together. It takes them a few minutes of juggling items, but eventually they’ve got the Girl’s sippy cup of milk and the strawberries balanced in one arm, still holding a one-year-old on their hip with the other, and they carry their haul out to the front room where they’ve got a high chair set up in front of the Diner’s lone booth and table.

They sit with their chin in their palm, watching her devour the strawberries that Kobra had neatly sliced up into bite-size pieces, juice getting all over the collar of her shirt. It’s not a mess, to them, the way they thought they’d see it when the Girl had first been brought to the Diner — it’s endearing. They didn’t know they could feel this way about a baby, before, in the City when getting married and having children had been an expectation looming over them. It feels warm and pleasant, in their chest, and they reach out to gently run the back of their finger over her cheek. The Girl smiles, toothily, little hands fumbling to grab theirs.

“I love you, princess,” Poison says, earnestly.

“Pah-tee,” the Girl says back, clinging to their finger. It makes them smile.

“Yeah, honey, that’s right, I love you too.”

*

It’s loud, at Gravel Gertie’s — the Girl hasn’t been around other children, much, which is the whole reason they brought her here, but so far she hasn’t wanted to play with any of the other kids, and has spent the entire time clinging to Kobra or Ghoul’s jeans.

“C’mon, Girlie,” Poison coaxes. They reach out a hand to her, and she looks at them warily, shrinking back against Kobra’s leg. “C’mon, sweetheart, ’s fun,” they insist, sitting down on the swept-clean wooden floor a few paces away, patting their lap.

Hesitantly, she comes over, settling herself up against their chest, and they rub a soothing hand up and down her back. “You can play,” they encourage her. “The kids here are very nice, you’ll see. Look, there’s some toys, y’ wanna play with toys?” Poison picks up a carved wooden duck with wheels that’s sitting by their knee, holding it up for her to look at. “See? Ducky!”

The Girl takes the duck in her hands, inspecting it carefully. Another baby, younger than the Girl and probably intrigued by the sight of new people in the playroom, comes crawling over, tiny hands grabbing Poison’s sleeve as they try to pull themself to standing.

The Girl grabs the baby’s hand and pushes it away, curling more firmly into Poison’s chest. “NO, mine.”

“C’mon, Girlie,” Poison urges her again, reaching their own hand out to the baby, who smiles gummily and grabs their finger. “See? The baby is nice. Say ‘hi, baby!’”

“Hi, baby,” the Girl repeats begrudgingly.

Poison kisses her forehead. “This is so you can have fun, sweetheart. ‘S not good for ya t’ just play with us at th’ Diner. Can y’ try t’ make some friends?”

The Girl frowns up at them, freckled nose crinkling up, big brown eyes scrunching at the corners. Damn them, they’re so susceptible to brown eyes at this point they should just have it stamped on their forehead. They rest their cheek on the top of her head, rubbing their thumb back and forth over her upper arm reassuringly. “I’m not gonna leave you, hon, okay? We can play together.”

Taking her hand, they encourage her to roll the duck back and forth across the floor a few times.

Eventually, she gets comfortable enough to sit next to them, instead of in their lap, which Poison will count as a win for today. She clings to the duck toy like a lifeline, clutching it to her chest whenever any other young children wander over and look like they might want to play with it too.

She tries to take it home when it’s time to leave, wailing when Poison has to pull it from her grip and place it back on the floor, but she calms a little once Poison bounces her a few times in their arms, gripping their shirt in her fist, a few more stray tears sliding down her cheeks as she sniffles. Overall, it seems like a failed experiment in Poison’s opinion, but to their surprise, a few weeks later the Girl tugs on their jacket sleeve to ask, “When play?”

“With me?” Poison asks, confused, and she shakes her head, waving her hands emphatically.

“Wif baby. Play wif baby.”

Pleased and surprised, Poison clarifies, “At the orphanage? With th’ other kids? Y’ wanna go back?”

The Girl nods shyly, gnawing on her thumb. “Back. Play wif baby.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Poison promises, getting down on their knees to give her a hug, her tight curls tickling their ear as she tucks her face into the side of their neck. “Anything you want. We’ll go play again, promise.”

*

Ghoul has the Girl in his lap, her head leaned back against his shoulder as he reads to her from a battered picture book Jet’s parents had sent as a birthday gift just a few months earlier. It makes Poison stop in the doorway for a moment, quiet, trying to capture the moment in their memory before it’s disturbed.

They shift a little, and the swinging door creaks under their hand, and Ghoul turns his head, smiling, tilting his head in invitation. “Girlie, look, Pois ‘s here,” he says softly to the Girl, who looks up with excited joy blooming across her face. She wriggles out of Ghoul’s lap, dodging the book as he lifts it out of the way, and comes scampering across the linoleum towards Poison with her favorite stuffed toy under her arm. It’s the one that Ghoul made for her right when she first arrived at the Diner, sewn from patches of a pink-and-yellow-and-orange paisley blanket he’d scrounged up at the secondhand market, the one that looks like no animal Poison’s ever seen.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Poison says, getting down on their knees to scoop her up in a big hug, her small arms wrapping around their neck. “Hiya, Ghoulie,” they add, shyly, glancing up at where Ghoul is still sitting cross-legged on the floor, book abandoned near his knee. His smile gets a little wider, eyes softening fondly, and they have to look away again to hide their face, pressing a kiss to the top of the Girl’s head so he can’t see their faint blush.

“What was Ghoulie reading t’ you?” they ask her, letting go of her but leaving a hand resting on her shoulder affectionately.

The Girl smiles, tiny pearly teeth flashing, freckled nose scrunching. “Book! ‘Bou’ nanmals.”

“Oh, very nice,” Poison says, getting to their feet again and holding out a hand that she grabs in her small fingers. “Show me?”

The Girl leads them back over to Ghoul, who settles the Girl back in his lap as Poison sits down next to them, knee brushing Ghoul’s. She points to the pages in the book as he turns them. “Dog,” he reads, her fingertip touching the illustration of a fluffy black-and-white puppy. “What does a dog say, jackrabbit?”

“‘Oof ‘oof!” the Girl says, clapping her hands in excitement.

“Good job,” Ghoul praises gently, flipping to the next page. “What about a duck? What’s a duck say?”

“Cak cak!” the Girl crows, happily. “Cak cak cak!”

“You got it, princess,” Poison says, unable to keep the proud smile off their face. Not that they want to. There’s nobody here but them, their Ghoul, and their Girl. Poison points to the stuffed animal still tucked in the crook of her arm. “Hey, Girlie, what does Fuffy say? What noise does Fuffy make?”

“Roar!” the Girl yells, delighted, putting both her hands up like claws. “Roar! Fuffy go roar!”

Ghoul bursts into laughter, head tilting back, and in an effort to avoid staring at the line of his tattooed throat, Poison focuses on the Girl, who beams at the reaction she’s gotten, holding Fuffy in both hands and giggling along with Ghoul. She looks incredibly carefree and happy, delighted mischief in her eyes, conspiratorial joy shared between her and Ghoul. They’re not sure what face they’re making, but the Girl looks worried, suddenly, when she looks up at Poison, mouth pulling into a pout. 

“Pah-tee okay?” she asks, leaning forward earnestly. Ghoul glances over at them with his own face set in a concerned half-frown and his hand resting on the Girl’s knee comfortingly.

Poison blinks, reaching up to touch their own face. Barking a short, flustered laugh, they shake their head. “‘M fine, Girlie,” they say softly. “I just.” They look up and meet Ghoul’s dark eyes, brows pulled together. His own shade of brown is a touch darker than the Girl’s, but they’re still so similar it makes a choking feeling crawl up the back of Poison’s throat. “I’m happy. Jus’ happy. Wanna— I wish we could have this, forever, y’know?”

The Girl still looks confused, but Ghoul’s expression clears a little, rueful smile pulling his lips up at the corner, eyes going soft as he looks down at the two-year-old in his lap. He brushes a gentle hand over the Girl’s tight curls and squeezes her a little tighter with his other arm. “Yeah, Pois,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

*

“Hey, jackrabbit, whatcha up to?” Poison asks, coming up behind the bench in Ghoul’s shed-turned-workshop. They’re surprised to find the Girl by herself, propped up on a little booster seat Ghoul had made for her out of a few planks of wood, sitting at his worktable and coloring like her life depends on it.

“Drawin’,” the Girl replies easily, looking down at her paper with her tongue stuck between her teeth. When they try to sneak a peek, she covers it with her arm. “Nooo, don’ look yet! ‘S not ready,” she says, in the tone that says she’s deadly serious about it being a surprise.

Poison raises their hands in surrender. “Alright, I won’t,” they concede, taking a step back. “Permission t’ color with you, captain? Promise I won’t look ‘t your art ‘til ‘s done, yeah?”

The Girl considers that for a moment. “Okay,” she agrees, amicably. She pushes a piece of paper and a handful of random crayons to the other side of the workbench.

Poison sits down and picks up a bright red crayon that matches their hair. “Where did Ghoulie go? Thought you were hangin’ with him this afternoon.”

The Girl shrugs. “Ghoul an’ Koba went t’ fix da bike. Koba said ‘t was ‘busted’ from da race today. Came in yellin’ an’ Ghoul said I could stay here an’ color while dey went ta fix it.”

“I see,” Poison answers, starting to draw the first thing that comes to mind: their brother and his broken bike. They draw Kobra’s face cartoonishly mad, a big angry scribble over his head. “Was it like this?” they ask her innocently, holding up their drawing so she can see.

She shrieks with delighted laughter. “Yeah! Koba really mad da bike was busted!” She beams with her tiny teeth all on display, chubby cheeks rounding out in a big sunny smile.

Her reaction makes Poison smile, too, a grin that softens into something more wistful as they realize they’re not sure how many moments like this they’ll have with her before she’s too old to want to color with them anymore. It’s been hitting them more and more lately, after the Girl had turned four — it feels like they blinked and she went from being a tiny infant to running around after Kobra begging to be allowed to ride on the back of his motorcycle. They watch her as she thoughtfully selects another color from her pile of mismatched nubby crayons, mouth pulled into a tiny frown of concentration. She takes the sky blue crayon and scribbles determinedly on the paper she’s hidden behind her arm, and Poison’s heart hurts.

They look back down at their own paper, absentmindedly doodling whatever comes to mind — Jet’s steady hands, Ghoul’s hollow-point smile, animals from the City that they haven’t seen since: a dog, a rabbit, a fish. Things from picture books a lifetime ago.

It’s nice, to just sit there in the still quiet of the warm desert afternoon in the slightly stuffy workshop. There’s just the waxy scratch of crayons on the scrap paper they keep around specifically for the Girl and Poison, the low hum of the generator at the rear of the Diner in the background, and in the distance, Ghoul and Kobra’s indistinct voices.

“Party?” the Girl says eventually, and Poison looks up.

“All done, princess?”

The Girl nods, holding up her drawing for them to see. Their heart melts. She’s drawn their family, all together: Ghoul and Poison are holding hands, the Girl between Poison and Kobra, with Jet smiling next to him and holding her violin. She’s carefully scribbled in a blue sky and tan sands with green cacti, and depicted all of them wearing their killjoy jackets, army green and royal blue and hotrod red and dark navy. The Girl is holding some kind of black animal in the drawing, and Poison points to it. “What d’ you have there, sweetheart?”

“Kitty cat,” the Girl answers happily. “Cherri said there ‘re kitties that don’t have a home, an’ they’re called ‘strays’ and you can have one ‘f you catch ‘em. So I’m gonna do that, an’ have a kitty cat. ‘S why she’s in th’ pic-chur.”

“I see,” Poison says, easily. They’ll have to see about that, because they haven’t seen a feral cat around in ages, but if she wants one they’ll do their best. She makes them feel soft in a way they’re not sure they’ve ever felt about any child before, even their own baby brother. “‘S is really nice, sugar. You did such a nice job with th’ colors, you’re gettin’ so good at drawin’, baby. Y’ wanna go show everybody else? We can put ‘t on th’ fridge in th’ kitchen ‘f ya want?”

“Yes!” the Girl says immediately, scrambling up from her booster seat and wriggling to the ground, holding her creation carefully in both hands. “Jetty first, den Ghoul an’ Koba?” She looks up at them for confirmation, brown eyes wide and earnest.

“Sounds good, jackrabbit,” Poison says, and offers their hand to her. She takes it, leading them towards the workshop door.

“Love you,” she says absently, as they’re walking together, and Poison squeezes her tiny hand tighter.

“An’ I love you, princess,” they reply, gently, following as she leads the way back to their family.

*

It’s nearing nightfall for the fifth time since the doomed evening they drove into the City, knowing they likely wouldn’t make it out and still feeling shocked when they had turned out to be right, and Poison has just found themself at the Paradise Motel for the first time in a month. They had been wandering truly aimlessly, likely in and out of Zones 4 and 3, for a long, unremarkable stretch of time before they’d spotted a landmark that was actually familiar, and they’d figured Tommy Chow Mein’s was another place they could check for any signs of the Girl. It’s been a desperate ongoing monologue in their brain: where would she have gone, what would she be doing to take care of herself, where would she have gotten the carbons for food and water? It’s not the kindest thought, perhaps, but they hope she stole carbons off someone — at WKIL, or maybe she had made it to the Diner and remembered where they kept their Rainy Day Fund in the pantry. The thought of that makes their chest hurt with memory; the Girl had asked why it was called a “Rainy Day Fund” when it only rained really a couple months out of the year, and Poison had done their best to explain Old World practices and Pre-War television programs and books and things like that that all referenced the term. They hope they’d left the jar on a low enough shelf for her to reach it.

The sun is setting behind their back, casting no shadow on the sand but gleaming in the edge of their vision regardless, a blur of vibrant orange and pink and gold. It’s beautiful, the way sunsets in the Zones always are, and Poison has to swallow down the taste of nonexistent bile when they remember that the rest of their family will never see one again. They shouldn’t be seeing one now, either, they think, viciously jealous for a second, before the feeling fades and they just feel terribly miserable and alone again.

The Paradise Motel — a misnomer, it’s the crumbling remains of a small three-story hotel that nonetheless had amenities, according to the broken-down neon sign still sitting at an off angle out front of the building — is washed in tones of tangerine and goldenrod, windows reflecting the light so it’s impossible to see what’s inside. At this time in the early evening, there aren’t any vehicles parked in the sunken, sand-covered parking lot, save for a single ugly mint-green bike parked in the corner of the lot closest to the side door of the Paradise, and Poison figures Tommy is likely just about to close up shop. Not that that matters to them, given their current lack of a physical body — he couldn’t stop them from coming in even if he tried.

They slip in through the closed front door, met with the familiar sight of cluttered shelves crammed into every inch of the original hotel lobby that they could be fit into. It’s a labyrinth of rickety metal shelving units nicked from a grocery store of some kind, all the supplies you could ever want or need or even just imagine in the Zones packed into one place. Tommy is behind the mahogany concierge desk that serves as the checkout counter, methodically sifting through the day’s profits with a satisfied expression. They realize they can’t talk to him, not that they think he would be much help in the first place. But whatever, Poison thinks, they’re not here for him. And their legs don’t get tired anymore, anyways. Nothing to stop them from scouring the Zones bit by bit on their own until they find their Girl.

They slink through the maze of shelves, doing their best not to just walk through any of them — there’s something about being reminded that they’re completely incorporeal and not really tethered to this plane of reality anymore that makes their brain start feeling weird and short-circuit-y if they think about it too long. At every corner, they’re hoping to see brown eyes peering up out of the dim shadows, or a glimpse of a child running just out of sight, but in the end — nothing. She’s not here either. 

That awful, choking feeling in their throat is bubbling up again, the sensation like they’re just about to cry but the tears never actually come, like a wave that never breaks, suffocating on all sides like they’re drowning.

“See, this is where we are,” Poison says, pointing to the spot on the old Atlas’s map of the Southwestern United States where somebody had marked the Diner’s location in Sharpie. “‘T used t’ be a place called San Bernadino. An’ now ‘s Zone 4.”

“How big are th’ Zones?” the Girl wants to know. She’s peering at the map with intense interest.

“Big, baby,” Poison says, running their fingertip across the lines dividing the rough estimates of Zones 1 through 6 Jet had drawn over the map in a different, purple pen. “Furthest edge ‘f Zone 6 ‘s up past Sacramento.”

“Where?” the Girl demands, and they show her the tiny star marked “SACRAMENTO, Capitol” on the paper. “What’s past that?” she asks, curiosity not sated just yet.

Poison frowns. “BLI farms an’ facilities, mostly, I think,” they answer, slowly. “Not really sure. Never been out there myself. Radiation belt’s a doozy.”

“Will you take me there, someday?” the Girl asks, tilting her head to the side so she can look up at them, all wide brown eyes and missing-baby-teeth-smile.

“Maybe one day when ‘s safe, princess. Then I’ll take ya anywhere y’ want, okay?”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, I promise.”

Poison’s head snaps up when the front door swings open, the bell on a coat hanger Tommy had finagled jingling cheerfully on its makeshift hook.

“We’re closed,” Tommy says shortly, not even looking up from the stacks of cash on the counter. The carbons rustling and clinking are setting Poison’s teeth on edge.

He looks up finally when the customer doesn’t answer, annoyance creasing his brow, but his frown drops a little when he sees who it is.

Poison’s heart feels like it’s squeezing out of their chest. The Girl’s face still has cleaner tracks down her cheeks from crying, but they’re coated in a fine layer of dust, as if she hasn’t cried since but hasn’t bothered to clean her face either. She’s cradling a tiny black kitten in her arms, a scrap of a thing that looks just about as well-off as the Girl herself. Despite their age, though, both the Girl and the kitten are dead quiet, the Girl solemnly staring at Tommy with her big brown eyes wide and serious. Aside from a little more dirt here and there, she looks exactly the same as she did the day they lost her. Her knee still has a pink bandage on it from when she’d scraped it the day before she was captured.

There’s a beat of silence, then Tommy says, “Well? Just because your guardians aren’t here doesn’t mean I’m going to let you loiter in my store all evening. You here to buy something?” His words are gruff, but his tone is weirdly gentle, at least by his standards. He’s doing her the favor of not staring, continuing to sort the money on the countertop.

The Girl stays quiet, but starts shuffling around the shop, shifting her kitten to one arm so she can pick out a takeout container of noodles and meat from the refrigerated section — something that usually Poison wouldn’t allow her to pick at Tommy’s, due to the price. Relatively fresh food is a luxury that their crew usually doesn’t shell out for. Tommy grunts when she places it on the counter. “…Thirty carbons,” he says, which Poison knows is far less than a container like that is actually worth. Tommy has never been kind to them unless there was something in it for him, but Poison feels oddly grateful, that he’s extending some form of grace to the Girl, even if it’s just because everyone in the desert knows she just lost her family. The Girl digs in her grubby pocket and shoves a handful of coins across the counter. Tommy counts out the money, pushes her change back towards her, and then reaches under the desk to grab a dusty bottled water that he places next to the food. “Now scram,” he says, and the Girl wordlessly takes her food and the water and heads back towards the door.

Poison hurries to follow her. They’re not going to let her out of their sight, not ever again — they lost her once. They will not lose her again.

The Girl sets off in a seemingly random direction, heading at an angle towards a cluster of dilapidated buildings in the distance. Poison has no trouble keeping pace with her — their legs are longer, but she’s also walking slow, moving at a steady pace but almost dragging her feet, cradling her cat to her chest in the arm not holding her food and water.

“Pah-tee!” the Girl says, toddling over as fast as her legs will carry her. She’s got her toy creature in one hand, the other outstretched. Poison scoops her into their arms, tossing her in the air to hear her shriek-laugh in delight.

When she’s reached the shadow of the buildings — barely more than the shells of a few old houses, most of their walls collapsed — she sets her kitten down on the sand-covered floor, seating herself up against the most sturdy-looking wall and carefully tucking in to her food. She eats it with her hands, taking fistfuls of noodles and beef and shoving it into her mouth, like she hasn’t eaten in days. Poison wonders if that’s actually the case.

When she sees them, her face lights up. She has her favorite picture book in one hand, crouching to pat the floor next to her with the other. It’s a clear invitation: ‘read to me, please’. Poison could never deny her anything.

Their chest still hurts like there’s something clogging their arteries, like there’s a trickling wound in the walls of their heart, but they sit down next to her, sitting as close as they dare while ensuring they don’t do something uncomfortable like phase their shoulder through hers. It’s almost comforting, to be with her again, even if they can’t take her into their arms and tell her everything will be okay like they want to.

She asks them, one quiet evening, if they knew her parents. “No, sweetheart,” Poison says, shifting uncomfortably. “But we hope…we hope they’d know we love you as much as we ever could. And that you’re safe with us, jackrabbit. We’ll always keep you safe.”

Poison sits watch as the Girl curls up in the bones of the abandoned house, tucking her kitten close and pulling her knees up against the chill of the night. It’s something, at least, that they’re with her. It’s not enough, but it’s something. Though they’re not able to touch her, at least they’re not alone, anymore. At least they’re not alone.